Bike Falls Off Car On Way To Ride For Fallen Officers

As cyclists, there are things we fear happening to ourselves and our bikes.

As for what can happen to ourselves, the dire scenarios almost always involve crashes and injuries.  Perhaps the biggest fear for anyone who rides in traffic--as I, a city dweller, do almost daily--is getting "doored."  It's happened to me three times--once when I was riding in a bike lane, and the worst incident two years ago, which resulted in 30 stitches.

Then there is the fear of what can happen to our bikes.  Some scenarios, like crashes, can damage or destroy both our bodies and bikes.  But when it comes to what can befall the bicycle, theft might be the primary concern for many cyclists.

Another nightmare scenario has less chance of happening to me because I don't drive.  But, on those occasions when I've gone to a ride with someone who does, I worry when my bike is attached to a rack, no matter how solid.   Bumper racks expose bikes to more harm because, well, another car bumping the bikes instead of the bumper will have more dire consequences for the bikes than the bumper.  But even on the best roof racks, there is a chance of something knocking the bike off.

I don't know which kind of rack Dara Gannon was using when she drove to a three-day training ride.  She was preparing for a Massacusetts-to-Washington DC ride that honors police officers killed in the line of duty, one of whom was her husband.  

The Yarmouth, Massachusetts resident saw her white Specialized road bike with "Gannon" stickers on it fly off her car.  As if that weren't bad enough, when she turned around to retrieve it, it was gone.

Dara Gannon with her bike.

Not surprisingly, the police in her Cape Cod community have taken interest in her case.  She and they hope that whoever "found" the bicycle will return it, as it means more than just a pair of wheels and pedals to her:  She has used it for other rides like the one for which she was training.

Anyone with information about her bike can call Chief Frederickson at 508-775-0445, ext. 2156, or e-mail him at ffrederickson@yarmouth.ma.us. 

A Feast In More Ways Than One

 Saturday was warm, sunny and breezy.  Even though Monday, Labor Day, was the “unofficial “ end of summer, people flocked to the beaches. I followed them—by bicycle, of course.  On Vera, my Mercian fixed-gear, to be exact.

However we got there, the conditions were all but perfect for however one chose to enjoy the sand and water, as this couple did in Point Lookout.

There are some people, however, who make me wonder why they bothered to  go:

However you go and whatever you do when you get there, you need sustenance.

I’ve passed that house, on an Ocean Boulevard closed to traffic, many times.  But I’d never seen that giant squash.  Vines with those plants covered the side of that house. There was even an audio description of that plant species.

Of course I didn’t pick the squash.  I’d packed some Ghirardelli’s dark chocolate and a few strawberries.  They were great and the day nourished my psyche.

A Generation After The Ones Who Didn't Come Home

Today, I am not going to treat or subject (depending on your point of view) you to my "Sunday funnies" feature.

Rather, I am taking this opportunity to commemorate the 21st anniversary of the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks, and the downing of a flight in Pennsylvania.

This anniversary is significant because at the age of 21, most people in most parts of the world have all or most of the rights and responsibilities of an adult.  So, some might argue, a whole generation has been born since that terrible day.

I also can't help, as a long-ago bike messenger, to think of all of those messengers and other workers--including firefighters and other first responders and office workers in the Towers--who never made it home that day. I am also thinking of those who were spared because they had the day off, were late or were on their way when their train or bus came to a halt.

And there are the bikes that were never retrieved.

  

Bike rack at the 9/11 Memorial

Restfulness, I Hope

The other day, a late-afternoon ride along familiar routes turned into more of a journey than I imagined it could be.

Along the Malcolm X Promenade (formerly the Flushing Bay Promenade), workers who didn't have a "break room" were doing the best they could to take a break from work much harder than mine:

They were reclining by the water, in the way people can recline only when they're by the water.  A few miles away, in Fort Totten, I saw upright structures in, and by, the water.

Nearby, in Crocheron Park, Golden Pond allowed me, for a moment, to pretend that I'm Monet.

I hope that the men I saw early in my ride got their well-deserved rest--and, just as important, the calm I felt seeing the sailboats in the bay and blooms in the pond.

So She Goes

 Today I am going to do something you probably hoped I wouldn't do:  Talk about an event you've surely heard about. To do that, I will invoke the Howard Cossell rule.

The event in question is, of course, the death of Queen Elizabeth II.  It was reported yesterday but, according to some rumors, she had already passed when her illness was reported and the news was withheld because of the transfer of the Prime Minister's office from Boris Johnson to Liz Truss. (I never could get away with giving a name like that to a character in a novel!)  While I don't normally truck in conspiracy theories, I think there may be something to that one--or the ones about Lady Diana's death.

Anyway, what does "the end of an era" mean, exactly?

Well, I have to say there is something to be said for someone who stays in the same job for 70 years.  Never mind that she didn't have to post her resume on Linkedin or subject herself to a committee interview on Zoom (or much of anything)—or that she got her job because of, shall we say, her connections. (A wise guy— I mean, a sage—once said, “Nepotism?  Keep it in the family!”) Even if I live as long as bicycles have existed and work until the end, I won't achieve such a milestone.

Then-Princess Elizabeth (r) with her sister Margaret, circa 1945.

And it's true that she met, probably, hundreds of world leaders.  It's fair to ask, though, how much influence she actually had on them.  On the other hand, it's also fair to ask how much influence she had on the ways the world changed during her reign.  Britain entered and left the European Union and lost colonies during that time. But she can't be blamed or credited for those events if for no other reason than, as I believe George Bernard Shaw quipped, the sun never sets on the British Empire because it never rose over it in the first place.

Some might argue that the reason why she's so important is simply that she's been the Queen through all of my life and those of most people living today. In fact, on the occasion of another anniversary of Elizabeth ascending to the throne, my mother told me that her coronation was one of the first things she and her family watched on their then-new television set. 

Her longevity might be, paradoxically, the reason why I never thought much about her.  Of course, being American and therefore never having been one of her subjects, I have an excuse.  Still, because I speak English, have a British relative, studied English Literature (yes, with a capital L) as an undergraduate, ride bicycles from one of the last traditional British builders (Mercian), and count among one of my most loyal readers an English woman who lives in Scotland,  one might expect that I'd think more about the Queen.

Oh, and  one of my favorite bands has long been Queen and I live in, yes, Queens.

So will--or should--I mourn the death of Queen Elizabeth II?  The answer to both is "yes," if only for two reasons: King Charles and Queen Camilla.

King. Fucking. Charles.   Queen. Fucking. Camilla.

Well, it's not as bad as having Trump for President, I guess.  

A Bike Lane To His Death

In earlier posts, I have lamented "bike lanes to nowhere."  They start or end without warning or don't provide safe or convenient routes to any place a cyclist--whether he or she is pedaling for transportation, recreation or training--might actually want or need to go.  Such lanes, I have argued, will do nothing to encourage people to trade four wheels and one pedal for two wheels and two pedals, even for short trips.

The worst such "lanes to nowhere" are not mere inconveniences; they are veritable deathtraps.  Such ribbons of illusory safety end by merging into traffic. The most perilous paths of all lead cyclists onto multiple lanes of cars, SUVs, trucks and other motorized vehicles traveling at high speed.  In the most dire of scenarios, there is no way for cyclists to avoid such a merge and no other way to anywhere else but the road onto which the path merges.

Although I have never seen it, I feel confident that my description fits the Longview Lake loop in Kansas City.  Longtime cyclist Athol Barnes' delight at the Loop's construction was muted because he noticed exactly the flaw I've described. As cyclists approach the intersection of SW Longview Road from the north, along View High Drive, the bike lane runs out past the intersection of East 109th Street, forcing cyclists to merge onto the road with drivers.

Charles Criniere (in cap) with his wife Megan and nine of his ten children.

He became especially worried about that merge after he encouraged his friend, Charles Criniere to start riding.  The middle-school teacher and father of 10 started by accompanying Barnes on early-morning rides during which they talked about the things that mattered to them:  family, faith, youth and eighth-grade math students. 

Criniere quickly gained cycling savvy, but Barnes' worst fears came true the Saturday before last.  Around 6:15 am, police were called to the intersection I mentioned earlier in this post.  A vehicle, which police believe to be a white Acura MDX, fled the scene.

Criniere was declared dead.  Police are looking for the driver.

In this photo, the photographer, Jeremy Van Deventer rides past a memorial for Charles Criniere.

Although he is glad the city is creating more bike lanes, Barnes also knows--and this incident confirms--what I've long known:  All else being equal, cyclists are safer on the road, and the real hazards are drivers, who aren't cognizant of, or are hostile to, cyclists and are driving bigger vehicles faster and distractedly.

I'll Bet You've Never Had A Ride Home Like This One

Ya gotta love Ukraine.  In the worst moments of its recent history--its invasion by Russia-- its citizens have been resourceful and resilient.  They  even make us smile.

Case in point:  Chichi was found wandering the streets of Kharkiv, the country's second-largest city.  It makes sense that she was disoriented:  She's a chimpanzee who escaped from the city zoo.

Now, I can understand her, or any other animal's, wanting to bolt from such confinement.  Such a desire is particularly understandable when you realize that she'd been transferred to that zoo from Feldman Park, an outdoor preserve on the war's frontlines. 

But she is no safer roaming an unfamiliar city in a warzone than any human would be.  If anything, she's in more danger, as she doesn't know her way around and doesn't speak Ukranian or Russian.

Oh, and she didn't have an umbrella.  And it started to rain.

That's when she spotted, and ran to, one of the zoo's keepers.  They embraced.  The keeper slung a yellow rain slicker over the animal--and propped her on the seat of a bicycle.

Now Chichi's ride is over and she's back in the zoo.  But even though it's more secure than Feldman Park, neither she nor the keeper are out of danger:  Several volunteers who helped to evacuate the animals have been killed during Russian attacks.

Whatever happens, I suppose Chichi won't ever forget her bike ride.

Could A Charity Ride Break Up Their Club?

 Imagine that you’re going to ride in another country. (You like this post so far, right?) You arrive at your destination, go to pick up your bike and…a customs officer says you have to pay hundreds or thousands of dollars or euros or pounds (or its equivalent) to be reunited with your wheels.

That is the nightmare scenario faced a Welsh club faced. They were on their way to do a charity ride in Spain that had been postponed by COVID.

The Tap It Out Cycling club had raised more than 16000 GBP for Prostate Cymru. Perhaps not surprisingly, some members have prostate cancer, so the ride was a personal quest.

Some of the riders flew to Spain and sent their bikes ahead of them, by ferry.  When they went to pick up their bikes, border police told them they had to pay an 8500€ (7300£) tariff. 

Since Brexit, goods from Wales, which is part of the United Kingdom, have been subject to import fees.  The Spanish customs officials were not willing to consider the riders’ appeal that they were not “importing “ the bikes.  “It never entered our minds that we were going to sell bikes or be accused of selling bikes,” said group leader Nicky Morgan.

Nicky Morgan

He went on to relate that the club raised money from the club’s coffers to pay for the bikes and commence their ride. But, unless they win their appeal and get their money back, they will have to “fold the club, shut it down,” according to Morgan.

What, And How, We Have Delivered

Today is Labor Day in the U.S.A.  I am going to talk about some people who make their livings on their bikes.

No, this isn't about professional bicycle racers.  Rather, I am referring to messengers and delivery workers.

I was a New York City bicycle messenger for just over a year, in 1983-84.  FAX machines were becoming fixtures in offices and other work (and, in a few cases, residential) settings;  a decade would pass before the Internet would connect them.  Still another decade or so would go by before documents like contracts that required signatures could be sent digitally.

Nearly four decades ago, most restaurant and other delivery workers rode bicycles; so did just about all messengers.  The differences between and among us were in the kinds of bikes we rode.  Some restaurant and pizzeria delivery workers pedaled specially-made industrial bicycles with fitted baskets, most of which were made by Worksman Bicycles, still located just a few miles from my apartment.  Others--and some messengers--rode whatever they could get, from whomever they could. (It was common knowledge that if your bike was stolen, you should go to (pre-gentrified)  St. Mark's Place where, shall we say, one didn't ask questions.)  And then there were messengers who rode the then-newfangled mountain bikes or bikes that seemed newfangled to most people even thought they'd been around since the early days of bicycles. I am talking, of course, about fixed-gear machines.

Such was the case until well into the 2010s.  These days, however, you never see a delivery worker on a pedal-only bicycle:  They're riding e-bikes.  The reason for that is, of course, that most are working, not for the restaurants themselves, but for app companies like DoorDash, who classify their deliverers as "independent contractors."  That means those workers are paid--and their terms of employment depend on metrics the company keeps.  

I, and most other messengers, were paid in the same way.  The difference was that we weren't working for app companies that recorded our every move and turned the data into "metrics."  If we got that contract or sample--or, in one case I recall vividly, a paining from a Soho gallery (Yes, the neighborhood hadn't yet become an open-air mall.) to Judy Collins (Yes, that Judy Collins!) in a timely fashion, we were considered "good" messengers and got more work.  

As the wheels under delivery workers turned from pedal bicycles to eBikes, bicycle messengers disappeared.  I rarely them anymore, even in the Financial District and other dense neighborhoods of Manhattan.  Much of the reason for that is, of course, the digitization of documents.  Not only does that mean much less work overall; it also means that are few urgent or "rush" deliveries.  That, in turn, means customers are less willing to pay more than a couple of dollars to have, say, a sample of a neon hoodie brought to their door.

Photo by Cole Burston, for the Toronto Star

I hope I don't sound like an old fogie (after all this is Midlife Cycling!) pining for "the good old days."  But there is much I miss about the messengering milieu of four decades ago.  For one, I was able to make pretty decent money--which is precisely what enabled me to move back to New York.  For another, it was a job that people like me, a young misfit, could do.  Finally, being an "independent contractor" meant that I was, well, independent:  As long as the jobs I took on were done quickly, people didn't care about how I dressed (though I did try to be neat, as I occasionally entered professional offices) or, for that matter whether I was hung over or high.

OK, now I'll tell you about one of the dirty little secrets of the trade.  In addition to consuming lots of pizza, pasta, rice and beans, french fries and other high-carb foods, we partook of, uh, certain herbal substances.  I haven't smoked weed since, probably, a year or two after I stopped working as a messenger, but in those days, I smoked stuff I rolled myself.  So did just about every other messenger I knew.

(One great thing about getting older is that the statute of limitations runs out on most non-capital offenses!)

I think that for food delivery workers, nearly all of whom are immigrants, there is a more serious consequence. Ebikes are far more expensive than regular bicycles.  Few, if any, can pay for them up front.  So, they are in debt, whether to the dealers who sold them the machines or to whomever loaned them the money.  

Photo by Paul Frangipane, for Bloomberg News

Oh, and even though the New York City Council ruled  that delivery workers for app companies are, in fact, employees who are entitled to minimum wage, unemployment insurance, worker's compensation and other benefits, the companies are simply flouting the law because they know a worker who's in debt and doesn't speak English well or at all is in no position to fight them.

In short, the changes in delivery work--and the near-disappearance of messenger work--has, to whatever degree, contributed to the ever-widening gap between, not just the rich and poor, but also (and more importantly, I believe) between those who can gain a foothold in this economy and move up, and those who can't.  I have to wonder what the young person I was--depressed and angry, unable to deal with office politics or over-entitled clients--would do today.

When A Cow Crosses Your Path...

During my rides, all sorts of animals have crossed my path.  Depending on the creature's size, tempérament, the width of the road and how many animals are crossing, I stop or ride around them.  

Among those creatures have been cattle.  I must admit, I have never dealt with them as resourcefully as this cyclist: