Hopeful In Connecticut

The Spring equinox is less than two weeks away.  I can see that days are growing longer: Today I started a ride to Greenwich, Connecticut--140 kilometers round trip--and, even with a half-hour lunch stop in Greenwich, managed to get home before dark.

Although the trees are still bare in the Veterans' Memorial, I saw some green shoots in the ground.  And I saw another sign of the day's mood in front of Town Hall:

Artist Charlie Hewit created this work to resemble the 1950s and 1960s highway road signs that pointed to restaurants, diners, hotels and other businesses.  Their bright colors and bulbs were meant to beckon potential customers, much as Hewit's sign is, perhaps, a call to better days ahead.

A call--and a yearning.  People walking with their dogs, and each other, shed their literal as metaphorical coats; their tired, aching psyches seemed to be reaching for hope just as those green shoots turn toward the fleeting light and warmth of a spring almost begun, their limbs thrusting through ashes and bones turned to mud by melting snow.

A new season beckons on the horizon, much as the sunset served as a call, not only to finish this day's ride, but toward more rides, more days, ahead.

A Flock Without Masks

Yesterday I took another ride to Point Lookout.  By mid-afternoon, the temperature had reached 15C (60F), in contrast to the freezing-level temperatures compounded by wind I experienced last Thursday. Also, the day was bright and sunny, so I wasn't surprised that half the world, it seemed, was out and about.

When birds congregate like that, I wonder what they're up to.  Are they just "hanging out?" Or is there some other purpose?  Maybe they'd just been enjoying lunch together:  After all, that beach seems to be one of their prime feeding spots.  And to think that they eat stuff for which humans pay real money in restaurants!

Whatever their motives, I can't say I blame them, even if they weren't cooped up, the way people have been.

Speaking of humans:  I noticed an interesting contrast in their behaviors.   I rode down the Rockaway Boardwalk, as I usually do on my way to (and sometimes back) from Point Lookout.  I also pedaled along Long Beach's boardwalk, which I sometimes do.  On the Rockaway Boardwalk, which was nearly empty last week, I'd say that I saw at least a couple hundred people on the seven kilometers or so from the Veterans' Memorial Bridge to the Beach 9th Street.  Most of them were wearing masks and even those who seemed to be family or friends were keeping the prescribed social distance (6 feet).  On the other hand, on the three-kilometer stretch in Long Beach, I saw about as many people, but only two other people--both of them cyclists--wore masks.  And I saw some furrowed brows and stares aimed in my direction.

The one explanation I can think of for the difference is demography:  The Rockaway crowd is more diverse and, it seems, more accustomed to cyclists. I don't think I saw a single nonwhite person (not even an Asian!) in Long Beach, which I suppose makes sense given that it's not as diverse as Rockaway Beach, Arverne or Far Rockaway, the Queens communities through which I pedaled on the boardwalk.  Given that disparity, another is not surprising:  the Long Beach crowd is definitely more middle- to upper middle-class and, I am sure, included at least a few of the New York City and Nassau County detectives who live there.

Perhaps I shouldn't be critical of Long Beach's seeming homogeneity--after all, the birds in the photo all look alike.  Then again, the birds weren't wearing masks, not out of ignorance or as a political statement (in this case, they're the same thing), but because, well, that's just not something birds do!

His Research Confirms It

Two weeks ago, I wrote "Are Helmets An Issue of Racial and Economic Justice?"  In it, I described a perhaps-unintentional consequence of laws mandating helmets:  Black, Hispanic and Native American cyclists are far more likely to be ticketed for infractions than White or Asian cyclists.  That begs the question of whether non-white or -Asian cyclists are less likely to wear helmets and of why some don't wear them.

One answer to the latter question is economics:  Nonwhite cyclists are more likely to be poor, or even homeless, and riding bikes they bought for very little, inherited or rescued from a dumpster.  People don't buy a helmet if they can't, or can just barely, afford a bike.

Cyclist pedals by the Suzzallo Library (Photo by Nicole Pasia)

But the question of whether some groups of people are less compliant than others is still open.  Ethan C. Campbell might have an answer--or, at least a reason for a non-answer.

He is a doctoral student at the University of Washington and a member of advocacy group Central Seattle Greenways.  As part of his research, he has been working on an infractions analysis of tickets issued to Seattle cyclists from 2003 to 2020.  So far, he's learned that Black cyclists were cited for helmet-related infractions at 3.8 times the rate of White cyclists.  For Native American and Alaska Native cyclists, that rate is 2.2 times.  On the other hand, Asian and Pacific Islander cyclists were cited at only 10 percent of White cyclists.  

(I could find no mention of Hispanic cyclists.  Perhaps they are not as statistically significant as they are in cities like New York.  From what I've heard and read, Native Americans and Alaska Natives are a larger percentage of the population than they are in other US cities.)

To be fair, the disparities are more egregious in other cities:  In Washington, DC, for example, Black cyclists were almost ten times as likely to be stopped as White cyclists, while that ratio in Oakland, CA is five times.  

While Campbell's findings are important, he admits there are two significant problems in compiling and analyzing them.  First of all, it's difficult, without someone sitting on a corner with a counter, to gauge each demographic group's share of bike trips in Seattle.  (And, I might add, some people's racial and ethnic heritage is not easily idenitifiable.)  For another, says Campbell, "we don't know the demographic of who wears a helmet."  In other words, does the fact that certain groups of people are cited for violating a law actually mean that they are more likely to violate said law.

(Memories of my youth--which, I admit might be a bit hazy (ha, ha) give me an answer of "NO!":  While the white students I knew in college were more likely to smoke weed, black "townies" were more likely to be busted for it!)

Even with those questions, Campbell's research confirms that if you're Black or Native American or Alaska Native in the Seattle area, you're more likely to get a ticket for not wearing a helmet.  That reflects realities in other parts of the US, some of which I've witnessed:  Almost everyone who's cited for riding on a sidewalk in New York City is non-White or -Asian. 

And, of course, Black, Hispanic, Native American and Alaska Natives are less able to pay for the tickets they receive--which leads to all sorts of other inequalities.

Audrey McElmury Made Them Possible

Today is International Women's Day.

To mark the occasion, I am going to talk about Audrey McElmury.

In one of my early posts, I wrote about Nancy Burghart. She won eight US National Championships during the 1960s. That brought her international press attention in the days before 24-hour news cycles and when the US was seen as, at best, a cycling backwater by the sports' powers in Europe and Japan.

I mention Burghart here because you might say that Audrey McElmury picked up where Burghart left off--and carried the torch to the great generation of American female cyclists that included "Miji" Reoch, Sue Novara, Sheila Young, Connie Carpenter and Rebecca Twigg.

In 1969, the year that Burghart won her final national championship, McElmury rode the World Championships in Brno, Czechoslavakia (now the Czeh Republic).  In the previous year's World Championships, held in Rome, she finished fifth in a road race that ended in a sprint.  Around the same time, the Soviet Union invaded Czechoslavakia to suppress the "Prague Spring."  The 1969 World Championships would run on the anniversary of the day the tanks barreled down the streets of the Czech capital.

That day, McElmury rode both the road and track races.  She came in seventh in the 3000-meter pursuit race.  Later that day, she rode the 62-kilometer road race on her road bike, made by Johnny Berry in Manchester, UK.  She would recall the race this way:

The pavement was somewhat chewed up from the tank treads.  The course was one that suited my riding: I was good in the hills* and time-trialed well.m On about the third lap, it started pouring buckets.  On the fourth lap, I got away on the hill by about 15 seconds, but I fell down while putting on the brakes in a corner on the descent.  The pack caught me as I got up.  The rain was chilly enough that I didn't feel the full effect of my bruised hip, and the rain exaggerated the amount of blood from a cut on my elbow.  I chased the pack with an ambulance following me to see if I was all right.

Being the tough customer she was, McElmury gained on the rest of the pack during the last lap and pulled ahead on the last hill.  She finished that race one minute and ten seconds ahead of the runner-up, Bernadette Swinnerton of the UK.

Audrey McElmury on the podium in Czechoslavakia, 1969.

McElmury's victory gave her the gold medal--and World Championship--for the road race.  In winning, she became the first American World Champion in cycling since Frank Kramer took the professional sprint race in 1912--31 years before McElmury was born.  In fact, it was the first road racing world championship victory, ever, by any American of any gender.  

To say that her triumph was unexpected was an understatement.  The awards ceremony had to be delayed by half an hour as officials searched for a recording of the Star Spangled Banner to play. She returned home to the same indifference she, and other cyclists, had previously met in the US.   A reporter, who apparently knew nothing about cycling, wanted to know more about the anniversary of the Russian invasion than her championship.

That indifference toward cyclists was compounded by the fact that she was a woman in a male-dominated sport.  She had to pay all of her own expenses--about $10,000--to compete in Brno.  The American cycling federation claimed that it didn't have enough money to pay for her, or the other two women accompanied her, because the dues they paid amounted to so little.  

Audrey McElmury's Johnny Berry bike.

On the other hand, her victory was celebrated in Europe.  For one thing, there was a culture of cycling and a fanbase for racing that simply didn't exist in the US at that time, so Europeans appreciated her determination, courage and skill.  And the Czechs, after their experiences, cheered for Americans in the races and were more than enthusiastic about McElmury.  They booed the Russians who won other events.  

She would be recruited by the Italian team, for whom she would ride and later coach.  Upon returning to the US, she still couldn't get her expenses covered, even though she showed she could hold her own with the top American men in the criterium circuit. 

After a 1974 crash, McElmury retired from racing and, with her husband Michael Levonas, coahed cyclists and tri-athletes in Southern California before working in hotel and food service management in the western US.  She died in Bozeman, Montana on 26 March 2013, at age 70.  In 1989, she was enshrined in the United States Biycling Hall of Fame.

So, for International Women's Day, I have taken the opportunity to celebrate Audrey McElmury, who helped to usher in the generation of Americans who would dominate the world of women's bicycle racing--and, I would argue, paved the way for American men like Greg LeMond, who would garner far more attention--and money.

*-Having cycled in and around Prague, I can attest that there are hills in that part of the world !

Escapism

Perhaps you're on a bike--say, a Huffy or Pacific--you wouldn't want to be caught dead on.

Or you're about to crash. 

Maybe you're tired and have flatted twice in an hour.

Those are answers to a question I never asked until I saw this:

How or why would you use an "Eject" button on a bicycle?

Bicycles For Everyone--In Western Michigan, Anyway!

During last year's Democratic presidential primaries, Andrew Yang floated the idea of a Universal Basic Income.  He's not the first public figure to advocate it: Jeremy Corbyn in the UK has voiced support.  So have Mark Zuckerberg and Elon Musk--who, perhaps, ironically share another trait with Yang:  they are tech billionaires. (I just hope they don't, like Yang, develop any political aspirations!)  And, perhaps most famously, a referendum on Universal Basic Income was put up for vote in Switzerland five years ago.  It lost, but the idea is still discussed there, and elsewhere.

Since I never, ever espouse political positions (no, really!) on this blog, I won't say any more about the idea.  I will say, however, if I were a President or Queen or Governor or some other high-level legislator or ruler, I'd decree that anyone who wants or needs a bicycle will have one.  Mind you, it wouldn't necessarily be a Specialized S-Works machine or bespoke handcrafted lugged steel beauty: a bike to get someone from point A to point B reliably, safely and with some style.

Just to prove that great minds think alike (no, really!) Elliot Rappleye and Jon Butler are doing what I propose.  They have created Lyfe Cycles, a Grand Haven, Michigan-based nonprofit organization dedicated to fixing up old bikes and giving them to people who can't afford them.  

Lyfe Cycles founders Elliot Rappleye (with bike) and Jon Butler

The impetus came from Rappleye's experience in a Holland, Michigan sober-living house.  He noticed "a lot of people not having transportation" to go wherever they needed, and wanted, to go.  

As it happened, there was a pile of rundown bikes at the house.  Rappleye fixed one, then another.  One resident rolled one out the door, then another.  Restoring the bikes soon became his project.  "They called me the bike guy," he said.

Last fall, Butler called on him to fix a bike.  They got to talking, and the idea for Lyfe Cycles was born.  "Some people just can't afford a way to get around," Butler observes.

Elliot Rappleye in the shop

The process has been straightforward:  Bikes are donated, Rappleye repairs them and they're donated. So far, most of the donations have been made to people in recovery groups along Michigan's western shore who've come to their attention by word of mouth.  They want to expand their services to give bikes to families and to promote cycling as a way to get around. Western Michigan is "the perfect little area" to promote a cycling lifestyle, according to Butler, who points to a plan to establish more bike-friendly lanes in Grand Haven. 

Lyfe Cycles is collecting old bike donations and, at the moment, is still working out of a shop in the sober-living house where Rappleye started his work.  A bike drive is scheduled for the 20th.  But his and Butler's long-term plans include starting a brick-and-mortar shop and auctioning off custom bikes to turn Lyfe Cycles into a "self-sustaining brand."

A universal basic bike for everyone:  Elliot Rappleye  and Jon Butler might make this vision come true, at least on Michigan's western shore.  

  

(Photos provided by Lyfe Cycles to Mlive.

 

Obedience And Therapy

Yesterday I was such a good, healthy citizen, it was almost disgusting.

On Tuesday, my orthopedic doctor told me I'd healed enough to do anything my conditioning and endurance will allow.  And, in spite of what Governor Greg Abbott and other legislators are doing, anyone who knows more about epidemology, immunology, virology, microbiology or public health than I know is telling us to continue the practice of social distancing.

I managed to follow my doctor's, and other health professionals' orders, yesterday.  Late in the morning, I hopped on Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic, and pedaled to Point Lookout.

Throughout my ride, I couldn't have violated social-distancing regulations if I tried, or wanted to.  I saw only three other cyclists and maybe half a dozen people walking along the seven kilometer stretch of the Rockaway Boardwalk.   I saw little traffic, and very few people crossing at traffic lights, as I spun through the streets of Queens, Atlantic Beach, Long Beach and Point Lookout. 

Even Point Lookout seemed as if it had never been visited by humans:  The tides had receded further than at any other time I can recall, leaving more sand, with barely any footprints, than I'd ever seen there.  The gulls and erns seemed curious at my presence.

As for the clouds that shrouded the sky throughout my ride, I was glad for those, too.  The day was cold and a strong wind blew out of the northwest:  I pedaled with it on my way out and into it on my way back. Perhaps the sun would have brought some cheer, but I'm not sure that's what I needed:  The subdued light, with no threat of rain, and the sea gave me a canvas, a slate, a stage on which to purge sadness of the past year and my hopes for what is to come. 

Call me selfish, but I was enjoying it all:  I felt as if I'd had those streets, the boardwalk, the beaches and even the ocean and sky all to myself.  So, not only did I follow the guidelines of Anthony Fauci, the CDC, the New York City Department of Health and any other real authority about the pandemic; I also did something for my mental health.  So did Marlee, who immediately curled up on me when I got home.

Silver Stallion Brings Bike Repairs To A Nation In Need

I first learned of Bicycle Habitat, which would become my "go-to" shop, while pedaling the canyons of downtown Manhattan, a Globe Canvas messenger bag loaded with packages, documents and even the occasional food delivery, slung across my body.  The shop, on Lafayette Street, was strategically located for messengers like me who shuttled between the studios, galleries, professional offices and businesses of Soho and Midtown and the traders, brokers, bankers and lawyers in and around Wall Street and the World Trade Center.  

Habitat had another location in Chelsea--ironically, just two blocks from its current Chelsea shop.  But Charlie McCorkle, an owner and founding partner, once told me that even though the Lafayette shop was much smaller, it did more business than the Chelsea locale--in part, because of messengers like me.  Another factor was the American Youth Hostels headquarters, where I would work after quitting the delivery business.  People would sign up for an AYH bike tour and we'd send them to Habitat for equipment--and, sometimes, even a bicycle. (Believe it or not, some people didn't yet have a bike when they signed up for a tour!)  But after AYH moved uptown, the bulk of the Lafayette Street's location came from messengers and transportation cyclists. 

I am recalling that now because of a news item that brings to mind a phenomenon I've noticed.  In neighborhoods where people ride their bikes for fitness or recreation--or commute on two wheels when they have other options--it's not hard to find a bike shop. For example, when I lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn, four shops served an area within a one-mile radius of my apartment.  A similar ratio exists around my current residence in Astoria, Queens.  But if I venture into, say, Elmhurst, East New York or most Bronx neighborhoods, shops are fewer and farther between, if they exist at all.  And, in such neighborhoods, cyclists are as likely as not to be riding for transportation, and to be on bikes that are in more dire need of repair.

So it is in some Native American nations.  The Navajo nation encompasses an area about 50 times as large as the five boroughs of New York City and is home to about 333,000 people.  Cycling there is described as a "way of life":  While some ply the nearby terrain on mountain bikes for fun, many more depend on their bikes for transportation.  Yet, there isn't a single bike shop.  If someone needs a bike repaired, he or she has to travel as far as Gallup, New Mexico--an hours' drive away.

If Silver Stallion Bicycle & Coffee Works were near me, I'd go to it for its name alone!  But they are in Gallup. A non-profit organization, their mission is "to empower and develop youth and young adults vocational skills in the bicycle repair and specialty coffee industries."  In keeping with that, the folks of Silver Stallion are going into Dine lands and fixing Navajos' bikes for free.  

Because the work is considered a form of COVID-19 relief, the New Mexico Economic Development Department gave Silver Stallion a grant to cover expenses. In addition, the Southwest Indian Foundation donated a delivery truck and the Catena Foundation gave Stallion a grant to cover the truck's operating costs.  And Stans-Pivot Pro Team mechanic Myron Billy travelled to Gallup to outfit the truck as a mobile bike shop. Stans No Tubes, Clif Bar and other companies donated parts and equipment. 

Myron Billy. Photo by Shaun Price

Along with the donated parts, repairs were also done with parts "cannibalized" from other bikes.  The most common repairs involved freeing-up seized freehubs, replacing cables and "sliming" tubes to protect them against the abundant "goatheads." 

To continue this effort--which, in addition to providing repairs, is also imparting skills and mentorship to young people--Silver Stallion is seeking donations.  They are providing a valuable service, not only for folks who ride bikes as a way to cope with the COVID pandemic, but also to get to clinics for vaccinations and other medical care.

Permission To Roam

My orthopedic doctor and the Texas governor said, basically, the same thing yesterday.

Now, I don't  know much about my doctor's politics, but he probably has never thought about Greg Abbott in his life. So how could they have echoed each other?

Well, the Governor told businesses in his state that, starting next week, restaurants and other businesses can open fully.  "People want to go back to living," he said.  He's declared that they can.  

My doctor gave me the same permission.  He confirmed what I suspected:  My injuries from getting "doored" are healed, save for two still-visible scars.  They'll take "about a year" to disappear, he said.  In the meantime, I could use a skin ointment, but if I should I should "be careful" because I have sensitive skin.  Looking at my helmet, he grinned and crooned, "Enjoy."

It's been more than a month since I did two of my regular long rides (Connecticut and Point Lookout).  The reason is not my injuries:  rather, it's the snow and ice that's covered many of the roads.  Also, Marlee seems to be guided by her animal instinct to hibernate and takes any chance she can to curl up on me and doze.  She's so cute, and calms me as much as a meditation or therapy session, that I want to stay with her.

I want to get out because, even on rides I've done dozens of times before, I notice something or another that previously escaped my attention--or wasn't there. During my ride to the doctor's office, a traffic light stop at Third Avenue and 17th Street brought this into my view:

I hadn't been inside that building in years--or looked at its exterior.  Whenever I entered, I listened to music or poetry.  I don't know whether its architectural details were covered, or perhaps I just hadn't noticed them because I always arrived at night, when throngs of people fronted and filled it.

Perhaps I will always think of that building--as long as it's still there--Fat Tuesday's, the jazz club/performance space that occupied it for years.  It closed around 15 years ago, when the changes I've witnessed in this city accelerated.  After that, it was occupied by a variety of venues, including a yoga and Pilates studio.

But, as you can see, the designers and builders of the edifice probably didn't envision any of the venues I--or most people living today--associate with it. Constructed in 1894-95, it originally served as a restaurant and beer garden.  The latter is not surprising when you realize that the surrounding neighborhood--Gramercy Park/Irving Place--was, at the time, said to be the home of more Germans than any place outside of Europe.  

The building would later host the German-American Athletic club and the German-American Rathskeller.  Given this history, it's makes sense that it's named for Joseph Viktor von Scheffel, a German poet and novelist.  

I don't know what "Allaires" refers to.  Ironically, when I first saw that name, I thought of a village in Brittany, France (through which I've biked) and a park in New Jersey where I biked, hiked and camped as a teenager.  That park was named for James Allaire, who owned an ironworks and village on the site.  The metal produced there was shipped to Allaire's factory in this city, where parts for steam ships were made.  He had a home on Cherry Street, about a mile from Scheffel Hall, so it's possible that his family owned all or part of the building or businesses that were in it.

One more thing:  Given the building's literary and artistic associations, it's not surprising that O.Henry wrote some of his stories--and set one of them, "The Halberdier of the Little Rheinschloss" in Scheffel Hall.

Anyway, as you can see, I didn't need permission from a doctor or governor to go back to doing the things I normally do:  cycling and learning about whatever I see along the way.  Marlee doesn't always approve, but, hey, nobody's perfect!

Painting--And Cycling--En Plein Air

 On a recent post, Coline commented, "Cycling helps clear thinking" and "opens the mind to exploration."

It also sparks creativity.  Lewis Williams understands this as well as anybody does.  For his 60th birthday, the Montrose, Colorado-based artist wanted to "rattle the cage a bit" to "see what would his shake out."  So, he decided to combine one of his preferred methods of working--plein-air painting--with his love of being outdoors and bicycling.

Yesterday, he embarked from San Diego on a cross-continental cycling trip.  He plans to arrive in Bar Harbor, Maine during the first week of August.  Along the way, he'll ride two historic trails, he says.  And he plans to paint outdoors, in the open air (the meaning of "plein air") along the way.  After that, he plans to participate in the Plein Air painting competition of the Red Rock Arts Festival.  

His wife is accompanying him on this journey, he says.

I know how difficult it is to carry cameras and multiple lenses--not to mention other photographic equipment--on a bike, especially if you're carrying camping equipment and clothing for a multi-day tour.  I imagine that it's so much more difficult for a painter to carry supplies.  So, he outfitted a van for camping and attached a trailer to carry his art-related necessities.  

The purpose of the vehicle is not just as a "sag" wagon one sometimes sees on organized rides.  Williams says that if any of his riding or painting takes longer than he anticipated, he and his wife will "mix up the riding with the driving" as needed.

This tour is an extension of an ethos he lives by:  "Find creative outlets in your life."  He, who has worked with senior citizens, believes that people are "not too old to do what they want to do or try something new." Why else would he embark on such a journey for his 60th birthday?