Cyclists Killed, Victims Blamed

This blog is twelve years old.  During that time, I've argued--fairly consistently, I believe--that bike lanes and other physical forms of "bicycle infrastructure" aren't, by themselves, enough to make cycling safer or to encourage people to trade one pedal and four wheels for two pedals and two (or three) wheels, if only for short trips.

The most important form of "bicycle infrastructure" is, I believe, attitudes and policies and about cycling and cyclists.  As I've done before, I'm going to make a comparison between victims of sexual crimes and victims of motorists' aggression or carelessness against cyclists. (I've been both.)  In both cases, victims have been blamed, implicitly or explicitly, for what happened to them.

Photo by Tim Grist

Although some attitudes have changed, it's still not unusual for some people to wonder aloud what someone "was doing on the street at that time of night" or was wearing at the time she, he or they were attacked. Or, worse, to blame the victim's sexual orientation or gender presentation for the attack.  And the ways in which too many police officers treat victims re-traumatizes them and discourages others from reporting attacks against them.

Similarly, when an intoxicated or distracted driver runs down a cyclist, or when any driver uses a bike lane as a parking or passing lane, the cyclist or bicycling is, too often blamed, again, whether explicitly or implicitly.  The former happened after a woman driving an SUV in Houston struck and killed an eight-year-old boy on a bicycle.  In response, the Texas Department of Public Safety issued a statement that he "was riding his bike in an area that isn't safe for pedestrians or people riding bikes."

As it turns out, the boy was crossing an intersection where the driver had a stop sign.  So, in brief, the Texas DPS blamed the boy for riding--to school?  home?--as so many other kids, and adults, do.

The bike- and cyclist-blaming is also extended to users of any form of transportation that isn't an automobile.  Pedestrians have also been similarly held culpable for crossing a street when a driver blew through a red light.  And, in Bloomington, Indiana--home to Indiana University--a student was killed while riding a scooter in a bike lane.  How did the city respond?  It decided to limit scooter use.

The real infrastructure improvement, if you will, the city needs is for its planners and policy makers to shift their goals away from moving as many cars or trucks as possible as quickly as possible from one point to another. In other words, they need to stop thinking that the car is king--and to spread the message that motorists share space with cyclists, pedestrians, scooter-users--and folks in wheelchairs or walkers.

To be fair, just about every other US municipality, even if it's deemed "bike friendly," needs to make such a shift. Otherwise, kids riding their bikes to school or adults riding to work or for exercise will be blamed when they're run down by people who drink or text while they drive, or use bike lanes for parking or passing.

4000 Posts: Change And Hope

 Today this blog reaches another milestone:  post #4000. Every milestone, whether of this blog or in any other area of my life, is a time to reflect. 

It's perhaps not such a coincidence that I, and this blog, have reached such a landmark  after my latest trip to Florida.  I hadn't been there--or seen my father--in three years.  The occasion of my previous visit to the Sunshine State, which wasn't long enough (or quite the occasion) for a ride, was my mother's funeral. That was not long after my 3000th post on this blog. 

As I mentioned a few days ago, a couple of months after my mother passed, "COVID happened." In many ways, the world--at least the parts I know--have changed.  

I got to thinking about that while in Florida.  For one thing, while riding I noticed many more cyclists (which, of course, made me happy), and many more young or youngish people, than during previous visits.  Both of those developments are, at least partially, results of the pandemic. I also saw what I had never seen before on any of the streets, paths or trails:  e-bikes and scooters.  Of the latter, I would say that I saw, not only fewer overall-- which would make sense because there are fewer people in Palm Coast than in my neighborhood-- but also a lower ratio of scooters to bikes, e-bikes and other vehicles. Or so it seemed. Also, the e-bikes and motorized bicycles were ridden, it seemed, by recreational riders:  I didn't see anyone who seemed to be delivering anything.

Seeing the damage Ian wrought, though not as severe or extensive as what other parts of the state have endured, is enough to make me wonder how or whether some of the very things that attract people--namely, the scenic roads along the ocean and through the woods--can endure.  Perhaps more important, though, is how the psyche, if you will, of the place might change.  I couldn't help but to feel a more--for lack of a better term--sober atmosphere than I'd seen before.  Even the tourists, whether the motorcyclists along the A1A or the college students and other tourists out for the long weekend, didn't seem as carefree as in times past.

I hope some of the joy will return--accompanied, of course, by a safer environment for cyclists -- in Florida and elsewhere.  As long as people are cycling, I have hope.  And as long as I can pedal, whether to a milestone or no place in particular, I have at least one source of joy in my life.    

For the occasion of this milestone, here is a "4000" bike--an early '80's classic from Panasonic:

Panasonic DX-4000, circa 1981

Will He Give Them The Freedom To Be Themselves?

During my ride to St. Augustine on Sunday, I realized who is cleaning up the mess Hurricane Ian left:

I don't doubt they are still at work, even if it's taken a toll on their relationship

or detracted from the joy he could bring to some human

I have to hand it to those folks, though:  They have a sense of humor about themselves.

Like so much humor, however, it has its dark origins:

Am I the only one who saw a gun in the Ron De Santis campaign sign?

Of course it's a stylized map of Florida. I can't help but to think, though, that its creators stylized it as they did to fit De Santis'--and many of his supporters'--interpretation of "free." As in:  You have a right to as many guns as you want, whenever you want them.  But not to terminate a pregnancy, or any sort of healthcare or education, or a living wage.  Oh, and if you're a teacher or in the LGBTQ rainbow, you have no more rights to, well, anything.

If De Santis is re-elected, I suspect I may see more "skeleton crews" if and when I ride in Florida again.

Another Florida Ride After Ian

Yesterday I took another ride to the ocean.  I started the same way as I did the other day, along Palm Coast Parkway to the Hammock Dunes Bridge.  At the foot of the bridge, however, I made an opposite turn and pedaled south, along A1A to Daytona Beach.  In all, I  rode about 105 kilometers:  slightly more than the other day.

My first stop:  Painters Hill.

As usual, it lived up to its name.  It's not much of a hill, but the light, on the beach or the street, always seems to have a soft--dare I say it?--brushed quality to it, even on the brightest, sunniest days. Plus, whoever happens to be there--the swimmers (though there were none yesterday; it was forbidden), the fishermen, the strollers--seem to have been created from images in the eye of an immediate but vivid memory.

Along A1A I continued, through Beverly Beach to Flagler Beach, a mist on the water and high cirrus clouds accenting rather than veiling sunlight. 

After I passed the pier at Flagler, though, I had to make several detours and, at a couple of points, walk my bike, if for only ten meters or so.  As I continued southward, I could see where Hurricane Ian unleashed more of its force than it did around my father's house. A number of seaside restaurants, cafes and small inns, have been closed.  So were two convenience store/gas stations I passed.  In some of those buildings, the damage wasn't so obvious, so I suspect that they were flooded and, as a result, have structural, fire and other hazards. But some edifices were turned into piles of matchsticks.

What amazes me is that next to some houses and other buildings stripped bare by raging wind and rain were others that looked as if they'd barely been touched.  But even in front of  such homes and businesses, boards, pads, rugs, furniture and other home and office fixtures were piled curbside, or on the paths and sidewalks.

And what Ian didn't strip from homes, offices, hotels and eateries, he took from the beaches.  Sand was strewn, sometimes piled, across the roadway and on the bike lanes and sidewalks.  Even with the wide, knobby balloon tires I rode, the bike skidded and skittered on the shifting sand.

Still, I enjoyed the ride as much as any I've taken along the coastline.  Perhaps I was simply grateful that I could ride it.  Oh, and I met up with a couple of friends along the way.

Later today, I will head home. Perhaps I will return here one day and while some of the structures will have changed, the ride will remain familiar. Or so I hope.  

Me, Dad, Ian, Rita, Maureen And Delilah

The other day I took a ride to the ocean. 

And I took another yesterday.

From those images, you probably can tell that I'm not talking about the Rockaways, Point Lookout or Coney Island, my most common sea-bound treks.

For that matter, I don't mean the Jersey Shore, where I haven't gone in some time.  Rather, for the past two days, I've done two other seaside rides I've mentioned--though, again, not for some time--on this blog.

I arrived in Florida on Friday evening.  The purpose of this trip is a visit with my father, whom I hadn't seen in three years, since my mother's funeral.  We'd planned another visit but, like so many other plans by so many other people, it was put on hold when "COVID happened."  

Since arriving, I've had nearly perfect weather for cycling and, of course, have taken advantage of it.  The bike I rode during previous visits--a balloon-tired beach cruiser--got rusty and dusty. My father, thinking the bike was beyond redemption (it just looks that way) went and bought another bike--a cheapo full-suspension bike--from a friend.  I rode it on Saturday, along the Lehigh Trail, over the bridge in the first photo and up Route A1A through Beverly Beach and Painters Hill.

Along the stretch from Flagler Beach to Beverly Beach, I was looking at some of what Hurricane Ian wrought.  While the damage wasn't nearly as widespread as what befell Sanibel Island or Fort Myers, there were piles of debris on roadsides, testaments to damaged or destroyed buildings and trees. As I looked at one of those ruins, a car door opened.  Just when I thought I was about to be "doored" again, a woman emerged from the half-opened portal and said, "You write a bike blog!"

Nothing like being famous, eh?

Actually, she is someone I met during a previous visit, about seven years ago.  I'd stopped at a gas station-convenience store for a cup of coffee or to use the bathroom--possibly both--when Rita broke me out, for a moment, from my stereotypical New York "don't talk to strangers" mode. (If I recall correctly, I had just arrived the night before.) We stayed in touch for a time but I think her number was part of the data that didn't transfer from my old to new phone, in spite of the salesperson's promise that everything, including a bunch of photos, would make the journey.

I didn't experience a near-catastrophe-turned-happy-coincidence the following day, when I pedaled up to the Castillo San Marcos in Saint Augustine--49 kilometers, or 30.5 miles--into a gusty wind, on the rusty and dusty balloon-tired beach cruiser.  Upon arriving, I wended through the shops and houses of the historic old town before enjoying a picnic lunch on the waterfront promenade and riding back--with that same wind, of course. So, I reckon that I at least rode a metric century on that rusty beach cruiser, though that was not the point of this trip.

After that ride, I showered, got dressed and went out to Mezzaluna for a delightful meal of mussels in a sauce of butter, garlic and lemon with even more delightful company, which included my father and his friend Maureen, a retired Canadian nurse.  She, as it turns out, was something of an avid cyclist and hiker before, as she said, "arthritis found me."  Afterward, we went to her house, filled with her plants and handicrafts, photos and paintings by friends and her late sister, all against backdrops of walls and alcoves painted in very Floridian shades of blue, green and yellow, and "guarded" by my newest friend--Delilah, her cat.

So now there are two Delilahs--well, a Delila and a Dee-Lilah, on this blog. Both are synonymous with delight, even if one is furry and black and white, while the other is lilac-colored and probably would have loved the ride I took today.

So why did I come to the Sunshine State this weekend?  Well, today is Columbus Day, Italian American Pride Day or Indigenous People's Day. (I prefer the latter because, not in spite of the fact that, I'm of Italian heritage: Why should our "pride" day be in honor of a guy who got lost?)  That meant a long weekend and, while some people traveled--There were quite a few out of state plates along A1A and foreign languages spoken at St.Augustine--it isn't nearly as hectic or expensive as traveling at, say, Thanksgiving or the Christmas-New Year season.  Plus, I didn't want the focus of my visit to be a holiday. Rather, I wanted to see Dad again, and because I wondered what it would be like to meet him without Mom or other family members.

I met him into a new phase of his journey--and, I suspect, mine, as I took familiar rides for the first time in a long time.

 

Combining Your Priorities

You have only one day off this week.  And you really need to do laundry.  But your bike is calling out to you.  

So what do you do? 

Combining Her Passions For Pedaling And Painting

Perhaps it's because I've lived in New York most of my life: For me, bicycling and public art have become more and more intertwined.

These days, however, one doesn't have to go to biketopias like Portland or Amsterdam or art havens like Paris or New York to experience murals, large sculptures or installations during a ride.  It seems that smaller 'burgs are getting in on the idea of combining the two.  I think it has to do with increasing numbers of artists living and working outside of the traditional creative capitals for any number of reasons (not the least of which is the cost of studio space, supplies, or simply feeding and housing one's self) and cycling becoming a transportation option and recreation choice for many more people.

Among the communities that are bringing cycling and art together are the city of Kalamazoo and its eponymous Michigan county.  To that end, Bike Friendly Kalamazoo commissioned a mural that is going up along Lovers Lane, a popular cycling route in the city of Portage.

Photo by Dan Nichols for WWMT

The very colorful 17-by-58 foot image is being painted by local artists and is slated to be finished by the 15th of this month.  On that day, a public engagement will be held for the families that helped to paint it.

For the creator of the mural, Ellen VanderMyde, working on this project combines her passions for pedaling and painting.  She grew up in Portage and "grew up cycling this path" and hopes that people will ride to the mural to see it in person.

"We wanted to express the joys of cycling," explained Bicycle Friendly Kalamazoo President Paul Selden.  He hopes that "everybody who sees it would maybe want to get on a bicycle and if not maybe give those who are on bicycles a little more space on the road."

He also hopes to have another mural completed this year and that it, along with the work in progress, will be the beginning of more such installations. 

As far as I am concerned, public works of art readily visible to cyclists--whether or not those works are bicycle-themed--are  part of a city's cycling infrastructure.  If nothing else, I'd rather see a mural or a sculpture while I'm riding than risk my bike or my self on a poorly-conceived, -built or -maintained bike lane.

  

Searching For Abandoned Bicycles

From Coastal Point

Now that Fall is upon us, tourists and summer residents have left their seaside summer cottages, condos and hotel rooms.  So have the people, mostly young, who worked in those places, and summer camps, for the season.

Many of those workers are college students from other countries.

In Bethany Beach, Delaware, Assisting Bicycle Commuters (ABC)--a non-profit organization in Bethany Beach, Delaware that loans bicycles to people who need transportation to and from work—leant bikes to some of those seasonal expats.

Now ABC is trying to find some of those bikes. Each has a yellow stripe painted on the rear of the seat and a Bethany Beach Police Department sticker on the frame.

Anyone who spots such a bicycle should call Mariner’s Bethel United Methodist Church at (302) 539-9510 and it will be picked up.

I suspect that some of those bikes were left in basements of the places where those students lived and worked.

Driven By Double The Hate

A White guy knocks down a Black man, spits on him and calls him a racial epithet. 

I think that most people would agree that it sounds like the outline of, if not a hate crime, then at least a hate-fueled act of aggression.

Now, put the Black man on a bicycle and the White guy behind the wheel of a pickup truck.  Oh, and the White guy knocks the Black man down by reaching out and grabbing the Black man's arm while he's riding his bike.  And, for "good" measure, when the Black man pulls himself off his bike, the White guy drives his pickup truck over it.

I think most people would still agree that it's a hate crime.  So would I, but I would say that it's a hate crime on more than one level.

In saying what I have said, and what I'm about to say, I do not mean to minimize the hostility and worse too many people face for no other reason than the color of their skin.  But, even if that White pickup driver hadn't yelled a racial epithet, I would still classify his act as a hate crime, or at least a hate-motivated act of aggression.

Well, for one thing, much of the intentional aggression drivers commit against cyclist is fueled by hatred, or at least resentment:  We are often accused of "taking up space" on the road when a person on a bike doesn't even occupy a tenth of the real estate or air space a car, let alone a pickup truck (which, too often, is carrying nothing but its driver) fills.  Also, cycling--like almost every other act--has taken on political undertones in this polarized environment:  We are seen as avatars of environmental consciousness and sustainability and, therefore, a threat to the fossil-fueled economic and social structure.

From Bike Cleveland

That is why the incident I mentioned, which took place in Palo Alto, California last week, is, to my mind, a hate crime on two levels: While the driver verbalized his hatred of someone with darker skin than his, it's impossible (for me, anyway) to see how someone who's armored with a three-ton steel shell is acting out of anything but hate if he (or she or they, let's be fair) deliberately attacks a cyclist.

So, while I hope that driver gets the punishment he richly deserves for attacking someone who is of another race, I wish he could also be charged with acting out of the hate that motivates any act of--let's call this what it is--bullying.

A Ride In His Imagination

One thing I would find funny if it didn't so enrage me is priests being sentenced to "a life of prayer and penance" after sexually abusing children.  Especially if said priest is old and has so exploited multiple victims.

I got to thinking about that when I heard the story of one Nicholas Clark.

Who is he? you ask.

He's someone important enough for USA Cycling to know about.  More precisely, the American cycling body has just suspended him from all of its activities for one year and from holding a coaching license for three years.

What did he do to earn such a punishment?

Oh, he more than earned it.  He'd built an enthusisatic following as a coach and owner of ProBike FC, a bike shop in Fairfax County, Virginia.  From that locale, he led training rides that included dozens of people, many of them in his thrall over his having raced for teams like AG2R-Casino on such prestigious races as the Tour of Flanders, Paris-Nice and Liege-Bastogne-Liege.

Nick Clark addresses a training ride at his shop.

The problem, as you might have guessed by now, is that his account of his racing history contained just about as much truth as any claim I could make of a blood relationship to the King of Sardinia and the Duchess of Savoie.  

Or that I gave Tim Berners-Lee that great idea he had.  But, really, I let him take credit for it because I didn't want the spotlight.

The other claims Clark made weren't so farfetched.  But his profile picture on his now-deleted Strava account shows him standing with Johan Museeuw, who gives him a thumbs-up and another prominent pro rider, Paolo Bettini, on a cloudy day in Belgium. 

 

The Casino team.  Where's Nick?

Now, I am not going to say whether that photo was "doctored."  As we say in the old country, I'll leave that up to you,  dear reader.  But it's come to light that some other things he used to burnish his C.V. were as fabricated as anything as anyone could assemble from three letters:   B.ec, LLB, MBA, CPA and CEO.  Oh, and he fudged other credentials and relationships to fit one scheme or another.

Of course, USA Cycling can't punish him for faking academic, military or corporate credentials.  But, it seems, there was some, shall we say, misconduct when he coached a women's cycling team.   

The thing that unraveled the world he fabricated, however, was recorded on that now-deleted Strava account. One day three years ago, he ascended a steep climb near his home at a faster pace--and lower energy output--than even an elite pro rider in the prime of his or her career could.  And Nick was a decade and a half past such a peak, if indeed he ever had one.

A screenshot of Clark's now-deleted Strava account.

Another Strava entry a few months later, at age 45,  showed that he rose up a hors de categorie climb in Arizona faster and with less effort than Sepp Kuss, a young rider who shepherded Primoz Roglic to second place in the 2020 Tour de France and later won a stage himself.

A few people looked into Clark's Strava account and found claims of his seeming to have defied the limits of physiology, the laws of physics and pure-and-simple reason.

Further digging revealed, among many other false claims, that he'd left his native Australia for Norway to compete in the 1993 Junior Road World Championships.  

The winner of that tournament's rain-soaked elite men's road race?  Lance Armstrong. The senior road race, that is.  That year's Junior Worlds, contrary to Clark's fable, were actually held in Perth, Australia:  his own hometown.  Still, there's no record of his having participated.

A fraud and a doper.  That's just about as rich as Donald Trump, another fraud,  endorsing Dr. Oz, a quack, for Senate.  Maybe they'll be sentenced to a life of prayer and penance--or a one-year ban from something.

These days, Nick Clark is working as a firearms instructor, claiming military experience and a background as a "former officer with the Department of Corrections having served in a number of units, from SuperMax wings, to emergency response and hostage response units and drug squad as an active drug dog handler."

If that turns out to be as true as his other stories maybe he'll, I dunno, have his license to shoot a cap gun suspended for six months or something. Of course, that's less harsh than any punishment he'd get from the UCI for any cycling-related infraction.

 

An Advertisement For Old Weeksville?

One thing I love about pedaling through neighborhoods tourists don't visit is the glimpses I get of the city as it was-- and still is, in the memories of people who've been in it for a long time.

Once upon a time--actually, when I was growing up and even during the years just after I moved back to New York--signs painted on the sides of buildings were abundant.  One thing the remaining signs tell us is, of course, that there was once a time--not so long ago--when there was enough space between buildings for such signs to be seen.  They also remind us of a time when most of buildings and businesses in this city--even large ones--were owned and operated by the families that originally founded or funded them.  

I found myself thinking about who might have been behind this mural advertisement:

Cardinal Realty Company was registered with the city on 22 June 1951.  It grew to include, as the sign attests, auto insurance and other services before its dissolution on 19 December 1984.  At least, that's the date on which it's listed as "Inactive-Dissolution."  

I don't know when the sign, on the side of an apartment building on St. John's Place, just off Troy Avenue, was painted.  The telephone number shown is NE(vins) 8-9000.  Telephone exchanges were converted from numbers to letters during the 1960's, but telephone numbers were listed in the old way until the 1980s.

The neighborhood in which I saw that sign also is, in its own way, a remnant of an old Brooklyn.  It's usually identified as part of Crown Heights or Bedford-Stuyvesant, but it's actually part of Weeksville, one of the first communities founded in New York by freed and escaped slaves.  Some farmed the land; others started businesses or trained in trades and professions.  Thus, the neighborhood became one of the first middle-class black communities, a status it held well into the 20th Century.  It's still a mostly-black (a mixture of American and Caribbean) neighborhood. Although it's not as prosperous as it once was, it's retained a kind of worn-but-not-shabby working-class dignity reflected in the peeling paint of that sign--and the bricks, smoldering in the light of the setting sun, surrounding it.

Perhaps Cardinal was founded by a descendant of someone who lived out his or her freedom in old Weeksville.

 

Blaming Ian

As you've heard by now, Hurricane Ian trashed parts of Florida's west coast and did a lot of damage elsewhere.  Here in New York, we escaped the vice of his grip, but his sleeve brushed us, if you will.  So, while no part of Long Island resembles Sanibel Island, we were tossed and drenched as if we were passengers on an unstable ship.

Fortunately for us, there wasn't much damage and I didn't hear about any power outages.  But, from Friday evening through this morning, enough fell from the sky, and the wind was strong to keep me off my bike for the weekend.

I think the last time I went a whole weekend without riding at this time of year was when I was "doored" two years ago.  At least I had an excuse then:  thirty stitches and a torn muscle.  I suppose that to someone who's not a dedicated cyclist, I had an excuse this weekend. I don't mind wind or rain, up to a point.  If precipitation turns into a cataract and I can't see more than a few bike lengths in front of me, or if I can barely make headway against the wind, I won't ride unless I must.  

Even if I had an "excuse," I feel like a bit of a wimp.  But, I tell myself, I'll ride again and I didn't see carbon lycra crowd in the bike lane outside my apartment.  Not that I think they're any standard of a "dedicated cyclist," but I feel somehow vindicated.  They'll ride, and I'll ride.  I like to think that even if I don't have a lot of years left, I expect to continue riding, however slowly, long after they've moved on to other things.  And I was cycling before they were born.

All right, you didn't read this to hear me being smug and self-righteous.  So I'll leave you with something I saw while riding home late Thursday, before Ian came knocking.

Once You Get There, You Need To Get Around

Recently, NASA announced its intention to send humans to the moon for the first time in half a century.

I hope that the astronauts will have everything they need:

 

From Pinterest

After all, once they get there, they'll need to get around.  And, from what I understand, transportation options are limited on, let alone under, the lunar surface.

Securing Your Bike Without Weighing It Down

One of the biggest "arms races" in cycling doesn't involve technological innovations in the equipment Tour de France riders use.

Rather, it has to do with what transportation and recreational cyclists use to keep their bikes.  Ever since Kryptonite and Citadel introduced U-locks (or, as some call them, D-locks) in the mid-1970s, nearly every bike security system is a variation on the design.  The changes have mainly been in the locking mechanisms themselves, as thieves typically found ways to pick them.  

Lock-makers found ways to stay one step ahead of the perps until another kind of technological development--in batteries--made power tools lighter and more portable.  So, now a professional or habitual bike thief's weapon if choice is more likely to be an angle axle grinder, which he or she uses to erode the lock's shank.

In response, U- and D- lock makers beefed up them up, using harder steel and more of it. One unfortunate consequence, which you might be familiar with, is that such locks have become very heavy.

Knowing that, a British company has created a new line--the Litelok X series--of D locks (their terminology).  They are fashioned from something called Baronium, a composite material that is fused to a hardened high-grain, high-tensile steel core. The makers of these locks claim that their products will resist grinders better than any others on the market at about half the weight of conventional D locks.

 

Litelok's makers say the locks are rattle-free, owing to the tight clearances of the shackle and the dual-locking design.   Each come with the company's new Twist + Go mounting system, which they claim will fit any bike.  The firm has also partnered with British bag maker Restrap to make a belt-fitting holster that will allow you to carry the Litelok on your person.

Two different models of the lock, the X-1 and the X-3, will be available.  The X-3, the more expensive one, is slightly smaller and heavier, but has an Abloy Sentry lock--currently considered the "gold standard'--while the X-1 has an ART 4-accredited cylinder.  Both items exceed the new Sold Standard bicycle lock ratings.

 

A New Regime Ushers In A Bike Boom For Half Of The Country

According to the stats for this blog, most of you, my dear readers, live in what policy-makers call "advanced" economies with relatively stable political systems.  Thus, I would surmise, many, if not most, of you are cycling by choice. You know that it's good for your health.  Or you're trying to reduce your carbon footprint, or simply your energy bills.   Pedaling to work or school may be more convenient than other forms of transportation, especially if you live in a large city or don't have to commute long distances.  Finally, you might be riding just because you enjoy it.

There is at least one place where, for understandable reasons, I have few, if any readers.  One of those reasons has to do with access to Internet content:  Whether or not its rulers have restricted it through censorship and other forms of subterfuge, as has been rumored, many people simply have no way to connect.  That has to do with a second reason:  poverty.  Not only do many people not have the means to pay for access, the ways they use bikes--if they have access to them--are very different from what I often discuss. And, finally, I suspect that the authorities might block or scramble this blog, not only because of some of the opinions (some not bike-related) I express, but because of who I am.

In that locale, some might be pedaling for their health, though I suspect that, relative to the United States, few are fighting "the battle of the bulge" and its attendant diseases like diabetes.  I doubt many are riding for environmental reasons, not because the people aren't conscious of climate change, but because their carbon emissions, currently and historically, barely register at all.  And I don't think they're cycling to work, school or the market as an "alternative" form of transportation because, really, there aren't many alternatives for them.

So what place am I talking about?  It's literally on the other side of the world--socially and economically, as well as geographically--from where I am.  That place is the capital of one of the world's more remote countries:  Afghanistan. Whether or not it was their intention, the Taliban have loosed a surge of bicycles on Kabul's streets.  

Over the past thirteen months, since the Taliban took control of the nation, sanctions have seized up banking and trade. At the same time, aid from Western countries has disappeared. As if those things weren't bad enough, Putin's invasion of the Ukraine have sent fuel prices skyward.   Owning and driving a private car was prohibitively expensive for most residents even in the best of times.  Now it's all but impossible, and the dire economic situation has put bus and shared taxi rides out of reach for many.

Photo by Diaa Hadid

So, workers and students have taken to cycling and bike shops are popping up all over the city.  While they, and the more established shops, may have new bikes for sale, most people buy used bikes or fix up old ones, not only because they are less expensive, but the condition of many streets and roads ensures that new bikes won't look that way for long.

While some may return to taking buses or cabs if the economy and their incomes recover, some say they enjoy riding and have found other unanticipated benefits.  Ahmad Fahim, a 25-year-old radiologist, observed that in addition to weaving through traffic, his bike "gets me through Taliban checkpoints" where motor vehicles are typically stopped and searched. 

There is one dark side to this new Afghan bike boom.  It, too, was sparked--if not directly, then almost certainly intentionally--by Taliban rule.  If you know anything about the Taliban's fundamentalist Islamic beliefs, you might have guessed it:  The cyclists are all of one gender.  

The Taliban doesn't explicitly forbid women from cycling.  It doesn't have to.  It simply tells women to stay home and, if they step outside, to cover up and be in the presence of a male guardian.  Those edicts effectively ended the mini-bike boom Shannon Galpin helped to create among Afghan women for more than a decade.  She recalls, "It was like popcorn.  It just took off."  There were women's bike clubs and teams, and even a coed multi-day race in the relatively liberal province of Bamiyan.

When the Taliban took power, Galpin helped dozens of female cyclists flee the country.  The ones who couldn't now watch, with sadness, depression and anger, male cyclists.  "When you see men can do that and you can't do that, it feels like  injustice," laments a woman who asked that her name not be used because she's seeking asylum in the US.

It's a sad irony that she has to seek a new life in an unfamiliar country to enjoy something the Taliban have enabled in her own. I hope she finds the refuge she seeks--and that she continues to cycle, by choice.

Danger In My Backyard

As I've mentioned in other posts, for several years running, Florida is the US state where a cyclist is in the most danger of being killed by a motorist.  No other state comes close in that category.

Of course, that doesn't mean the Sunshine State has a monopoly on intoxicated or distracted drivers, supersized diesel-powered pickup trucks with bodies customized to take up an entire roadway, drag racers (though the state is home to Daytona) or inherently dangerous roads.

As for the last item on that list:  The single most dangerous road (excluding Interstates and other highways where bicycles are prohibited) for cyclists in the United States is in my home state of New York.  In fact, it's in my backyard.

All right, since I'm an apartment dweller, I don't have a backyard.  What I mean is that said thoroughfare is near me.  In fact, I've crossed, though not ridden, on it a number of times.

According to the Nassau County and Hempstead Police Departments, drivers struck 320 cyclists and pedestrians on the 16 mile-long Hempstead Turnpike (a.k.a. New York State Route 24) between 2011 and 2021. Mind you, that is only the number of such incidents the constables know about through 911 calls.  Of said victims, 13 died.  Another six were killed just during the past year.  The road is so dangerous for cyclists and pedestrians, in fact, that most of the fatalities were cyclists or pedestrians trying to cross the road so they could continue along one of the many streets that intersect with it.  

The most impatient and hot-tempered drivers I've ever encountered, anywhere were along that road.  When the light turns green, it's like a dam opening: a torrent of vehicles rushes through.  Woe be to a cyclist or pedestrian, even one in a wheelchair, who happens to be in the path of that storm surge.

OK, so I mixed my metaphors a bit. But I think you have at least a partial picture of what I'm talking about.  The drivers are indeed in a hurry to get to the store or through the next red light, but if someone wanted to design a traffic conduit that would bring out the worst in such drivers, he or she could hardly come up something that better fits the purpose than the Hempstead Turnpike.

Photo by Levi Mandel

One problem is that, in some stretches, it's even wider than an Interstate (like an Autobahn or Autoroute).  Through most of its length, it has eight lanes of traffic, with dividers that are low to the ground or nothing more than lines painted on the asphalt.  Also in keeping with the worst in highway design, it has no bike or pedestrian lane or, for most of its length, sidewalks.  

But unlike superhighways, it's not elevated or in a trench:  It's at the same level as other streets.  And, as it passes through residential and suburban residential neighborhoods, many two-lane and one-way streets cross it.  That means many people must cross in order to get to work or school or go home.

What exacerbates all of these deficiencies is that the Hempstead Turnpike begins in an area of southeastern Queens that has one of the highest population densities in the United States but almost no mass transportation.  That means people are car-dependent.  That part of Queens is also relatively low-income and has few stores besides bodegas and small grocery stores.  Thus, residents of that area frequently drive to the Nassau section of the highway, with its abundant stores (including supermarkets and chain stores), which offer more variety and lower prices.  

Also, many residents work in those stores and in other area businesses.  Meanwhile, the fact that on its Queens end, the highway connects with the Grand Central Parkway--a major artery to western Queens and Manhattan--also guarantees that many Nassau County residents drive their daily commutes on it.

When the Hempstead Turnpike isn't clogged with traffic--on most days, only from about 2 to 4 in the morning--it becomes our local version of Daytona.  Sometimes the wannabe racers even test the limits of their machines, in speed and maneuverability, when there's traffic.  The worst part is that they're not the only ones exceeding the 30- to- 40 mph speed limit.  In fact, according to a grim joke or local folk wisdom (depending on whom you believe), police officers give tickets to drivers who don't speed because they're the ones the cops can catch .

Having crossed the Hempstead Turnpike many times, I'm not surprised to learn that it's officially the most dangerous road in this region, and probably the nation.  Ironically, when I was "doored" nearly two years ago, I had just crossed the Hempstead Turnpike.  It wouldn't surprise me if the driver who opened her door into my path--or the drivers who honked their horns out of frustration over having to stop for a cyclist lying in their path--had just turned off the Turnpike.