Remnants And Aspirations

Yesterday I played chicken with rain that never came.  The skies were laden with rainclouds (or what looked like rainclouds) that, according to forecasts, would unload on us.

On my way back from the Canarsie Pier, I passed through a still-rundown area of Brownsville, Brooklyn, where a riot of color burst through the sea of gray.

This building houses the East Brooklyn Community High School.  Its stated goals include helping students "get back on track" toward their high school diplomas and GEDs.  To that end, it offers not only the kind of academic attention and counseling such students need, but also access to services.

I would argue that the murals on the building are also vital.  I mean, what does someone who's spent his or her life in a neighborhood rife with poverty and other ills need more than hope?  And what can offer hope--or at least a welcoming environment--better than an expression of creative aspiration?

It's good to see a reflection of the vitality to be found even in what has long been one of Brooklyn's--and New York's--poorest communities, especially where one can see so many remnants of what was.

I don't know how long ago the Chinese restaurant went out of business, or moved away. I wonder whether the name is meant to evoke Americans' ideas of what is Chinese, or perhaps cuisine from the Wuhan region was served there. In either event, if that restaurant were still in that building, it might've wanted to change its name, given Wuhan's connotation with the origins of COVID-19.  

Malfunction

“I was turning a corner,” when “the wheel bent.”

If you have ever worked in a bike shop, you probably have heard equally-strange and improbable explanations from customers of what brought them, and their bikes, to you.

But you probably haven’t heard this one:

Communication Minister Delivers Meals

Photo by Hannibal Hanschke, for Reuters

 For the second time in a week, I’ll mention an early post, “What I Carried In The Original Messenger Bag.” Why?  This post will tell a man’s story that, in at least one way, parallels mine.

Some family members and others who knew me were bewildered or furious (or both) when I started dodging cabs and trucks to deliver papers, pizza and more mysterious packets in Manhattan and, occasionally, beyond.  After all, I had a degree from a respected university, did a couple of things that made use of it and lived abroad.  

But I’d had other, less salubrious, experiences.  And I was bearing what a doctor I saw years later would describe as “persistent’ depression and PTSD—as a result of some of those experiences, including trying to deal, or not deal, with my gender identity.

I don’t know anyoabout Sayed Sadaat’s personal history beyond what I read in an article. It’s not hard to imagine that he has some manifestation of PTSD—after all, he is an Afghani who left his country.

Also, he had lived outside of his native country before his current sojourn as a refugee. In fact, he holds dual Afghan-British citizenship and could have chosen to stay there.  But the 49-year-old moved to Germany late last year, just before Brexit “closed the door.”  He chose Germany, he said, because he expects it to be a leader in the IT and telecom sectors, areas in which he holds university degrees.

Oh, and when he left Afghanistan in 2018, he was the government’s communications minister.

Germany was taking in many Afghan refugees before the current Taliban takeover.  It seems that with his education, skills and experience, he would stand out among his fellow immigrants—and even natives of his current home country.  But there was one problem:  He arrived not knowing a word of German.

He concedes that “the language is the most important part” of making a new life for himself and the family he hopes to bring over. So, every day, he spends four hours at a language school before starting a six- hour shift on his bicycle, delivering meals for Lieferando in the eastern city of Liepzig.

One difference between his story and mine, though, is that he is about twice as old as I was when I was a messenger. Another, more important one is, of course, language.  However, once he gains a functional command of German, he should have other employment options.  I had them, too, but in my emotional state, I couldn’t have done anything else.

That leads me to wonder whether another part of our stories will continue to mirror each other:  I didn’t stop cycling.  Will he?

A Ride. A Premonition And A Message

This summer, it seems that the weather has ping-ponged between rain and heat.  For the past few days we’ve had the former; tomorrow’s forecast calls for the latter.

So I went for another morning ride along the North Shore, to Fort Totten.  Just before I arrived, I had a premonition.  

After I snapped this photo, I pulled out the phone.  There was a voice message from my brother:  My uncle (and godfather) is in the hospital, in really bad shape.  My brother got the news in a text message from my cousin, just as he was thinking about the upcoming anniversary of our mother’s passing, I’d thought about it, too, while I was riding—just before I had my premonition.

I must say, I felt quite fortunate to be riding again!

Do They Know What We’re Carrying?

One of my early posts, “What I Carried In The Original Messenger Bag”, detailed some of the baggage, if you will, I was hauling with my deliveries as I sluiced the Manhattan canyons of concrete, glass and steel. My traumas, fears and grievances were, of course, among the reasons why I spent a year as a bike messenger.

Perhaps I still  carry some of those psychological wounds. Perhaps I always will. These days, though, the load is lighter. So, today, I am going to mention the physical objects I take with me on just about any ride.  Perhaps you take some of them—or similar items with you.

My kit includes a spare inner tube, tire levers, a Park MT-1 tool and  Victorinox Spartan knife.

Andrew  a snack or two.  Sometimes I think animals know that.

“Oh  look, one of those funny creatures with big round feet—and something to eat!”

A Lowe-Case Letter And A Crossing

 What do you do when wake up and can’t get back to sleep?  Take a bike ride, of course.

I hopped on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear, for a spin.

Into the sun

rising over the World’s Fair Marina

I know it’s not Antibes or Nice, but I thought it was pretty nice nonetheless.  From there, I spun along the North Shore to Bayside and a couple of blocks into a Nassau County before descending through Flushing Meadow-Corona Park (and the (Unisphere) before heading back to my apartment. 

Along the way, I was treated to the cutest pedestrian crossing I’ve seen in a long time.  When I stopped for the red light at 83rd Street and 34th Avenue, the hands of a young Asian (Korean, I think) woman danced together as she bowed her head with a coquettish smile. A female driver stopped at the same light gave both of us a thumbs-up.

I really enjoyed my bagel and yogurt when I got home! 

After Henri

 Although Henri dumped rain on us for almost three days straight, things weren’t as as predicted.  For one thing, we barely felt any wind, which is one reason why relatively few people lost their electricity. For another, although a lot of rain fell, few spots flooded, probably because the rain was relatively steady—and everyone seemed well-prepared. 

The rain stopped early enough  that I rode for about an hour before sunset. Now I’ve pedaled to Point Lookout, where there’s barely any trace of Henri’s passing.

Pacing Or Trailing Henri

On Thursday I took my “ride ahead of Fred.”  While he wreaked havoc in other places, he behaved more like, well, a Fred by the time he wheezed by us.

But news of a bigger storm—Henri— followed.  We just missed a direct hit, but points east on Long Island and New England weren’t so lucky.  Still, it’s been raining almost nonstop since late Saturday.  At least I managed to take a ride into the heady of Brooklyn that morning, and to Point Lookout on Friday.

If the rain lightens, I might take a short ride on one of my fendered bikes. If I do, will I be pacing or trailing Henri? 

Pacing or trailing Henri—does that sound like something a domestique  might’ve done in a Tour de France?

Going With The Flow?

 I wonder who named this street

and what they were thinking when they named it.

I wonder whether or not that name is a disincentive to buy any of the properties that line it.

Riding In The Body Positive

I don't have the body I had when I was 22.

At that age, my gender affirmation surgery was nearly three decades in my future.  (I didn't know I had a future!)  But that's not the only way in which my form has shifted over the years.

Of course, everybody's body changes over the years.  Some people mourn that:  They wish for the "ideal" body they had when they were young--whether or not they ever fit such an image.

While some segments of society are beginning to recognize that few, if any, of us remain at size four (I'm talking dress, not jersey, sizes!) in our fourth, fifth or sixth decades, acknowledgement has come that some people never mirrored the images presented to us in fashion magazines--or bike ads--even in their youth, through no fault of their own, has  been slower in coming.

The notion that cyclists, dancers and other athletes and performing artists have to conform to a particular body types discourages some from performing such activities.  It also triggers eating disorders and other mental health issues in some participants.

That is something Olivia Ray is trying to address.  The 22-year-old professional cyclist from New Zealand has volunteered to be part of a discussion of mental health awareness hosted by Rally Health, a sponsor of her team (Rally Cycling). "I think we get stuck on an ideal image, the holy grail of a particular body type," she says.  "Finding what makes us happy and what makes us feel most empowered by what we look like is, I think, the biggest thing," she explains.

From ages 3 to 16, she was enrolled in ballet, tap and jazz dance programs.  So she has experienced, in several venues, the pressure to conform to a particular body type.  While she concedes that in some instances, such as riding up a hill, it makes sense to carry less weight, "there is a fine line between what's beneficial to performance and harming yourself."  Obsession with weight can also cause reproductive health problems and other health issues for women, she points out.

One solution, she believes, would be to focus more on nutrition.  "If you're not giving yourself enough energy" during the ride or "enough fuel post-ride," she explains, "you will feel bad, you will feel like crap, and you won't want to keep riding"--no matter how well you fit the image of cyclists perpetrated in popular media.