More Choppers!

 Even with all of my cycling experiences, there is one that I don’t share with some other members of my generation.  I never had one of those bikes that was styled so that kids could pretend they were riding motorcycles.  You know the kind I mean:  the ones with “banana” seats, “ape-hanger” handlebars and “stick” shifters strategically located (on the top tube) to, it seemed, reduce our generation’s fertility rate.

Such bikes included the spectrum Schwinn’s Sting-Ray bicycles (the original S-R and the Lemon Peeler, Pea Picker, the Orange and Apple Krates and the long-rumored Grape Krate) and their imitators from other American bike manufacturers.

That genre also included the Raleigh Chopper. Like the Sting-Ray, they have a loyal following among those who rode them in their childhood and, apparently, some who use them as compact or travel bikes—sort of like a Raleigh Twenty that doesn’t fold.

Last month, Raleigh released a near-as-possible reproduction run that sold out in days.  Now another run—based on the MK2 model—is set to be released next Tuesday, the 25th.  After that, Raleigh says, there will be no more.

Some of the parts used on the 1970s Choppers (and Sting-Rays) are long out of production and the companies that made them have gone out of business (or simply the bike business) or been absorbed into other companies.  Among those companies is Sturmey-Archer, which went into receivership in 2000 and was purchased by the Taiwanese company SunRace.  S-A made the three-speed hub found on the Chopper MK II (and those classic English three-speed bikes)—and the “stick” shifter. Raleigh had to work with S-A (SunRace kept the brand alive) to replicate a hub that looks like the original—and the “sterilization” shifter!

Riding To My Own Guitar Solo (Or Overtime)

 On Monday morning and early afternoon, I took Dee-Lilah, my Mercian Vincitore Special, for a spin out to Point Lookout and back: 120 kilometers (about 75!mikes). Yesterday morning I took Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, for a shorter ride—about 40 kilometers (25 miles) to Fort Totten and back.

What did these rides have in common, besides the fact that I enjoyed them?  Well, both bikes are purple, though in different shades.  Also, I timed both rides to, as best I could, finish before the most intense heat—and worst air quality (those Canadian wildfires, again!) of the day.

Both rides also have something in common with every other ride I’ve taken in my life:  I rode without headphones, eat buds or any other audio device.  Sometimes I feel I’m the only person who still rides that way.

I think I’ll always ride that way.  For one thing, I don’t want to impede my ability to hear traffic or other ambient sounds—including bird sings and ocean tides. But I also believe  don’t need devices to hear music, if only inside my own mind.

Back in the day, the term “ear worm” didn’t exist. (At least, I hadn’t heard it.) I would,!however, find myself riding to a tune playing through my head—usually, somethings I’d heard not long before.

I first noticed myself riding to a tune I was carrying with me during a ride when I was, probably, fifteen years old.  I’d been pedaling a long, flat stretch of New Jersey Route 36 from Sandy Hook to Long Branch. The ocean stretched thousands of miles to my left—it years would pass before I saw the other side. The sky stretched even further above and beyond me.  And, even though I knew the road ended—or, more precisely changed direction—in Long Branch and I was gliding toward it on a combination of youthful energy and the wind at my back, I saw myself pedaling forward, forced, even further than that road could take, or my own vision could guide, me.

That ride’s ear worn before there were ear worms?  The long guitar riff of Black Sabbath’s “Rat Salad.”  It’s trippy yet hard-driving and expansive: the way I was pedaling on that long-ago ride.

And what did I hear as I pedaled, with a light breeze at my back, along the long,f flat—and surprisingly deserted—Rockaway Boardwalk? You guessed it: Rat Salad. As Kurt Vonnegut would have said, I was woozy with deja vu.

Oh, and during yesterday’s ride, my “ear worm” was an overture from Debussy’s “La Mer”: one of the first pieces of classical music I came to truly love—and an “ear worm” on another long-ago ride.

Given what I’ve described, you might think I was a strange kid. I wouldn’t try to disabuse you of such a notion.  Of course, you may think I’m an even stranger adult—one in mid-life—because I’ve never ridden, and intend never to ride, with headphones, ear buds or any other audio device.

Cheery Cherries--In Tandem?

You've heard the expression, "like two peas in a pod."

Well, I dug into a bag of cherries.  (Summer isn't right without them!)  I pulled out two, attached to the same stem.  And I wondered, "Is this possible?" 

Netting New Tires

 Formosa Tafetta.

Does it sound like the fabric in a gown a Chinese ambassador's wife (or daughter or girlfriend) wore to a formal dance in Taipei in, say, 1920 or thereabouts?

Well, you might find it in your next set of bicycle tires.

It's already in Patagonia's "Net Plus" line of clothing and accessories.

So what, exactly, is this wonder fabric?

Well, Formosa Tafetta is actually the name of the company that makes it--or, more precisely, harvests it from the sea.

No, there isn't some species of octopus or coral that spins silky threads into nets.  But the company's trademark fabric--Seawastex--is made from fishing nets recovered around Taiwan's waters.  Some were battered and abandoned; others were apparently lost.

Turns out, even in the tattered nets, up to 95 percent of the material is recyclable.  And, since all of them are recovered, and all of the work of converting them is done, in and around Taiwan, Seawastex has a 49 percent smaller carbon footprint than virgin-manufactured nylon.

At 2023 Taipei Cycle, the company showcased its new collaboration with well-known tire-maker Maxxis.  Sewastex will be used to make the casings under the rubber that meets the road (or trail).  Nearly all bicycle tires today have nylon casings.  A few high-performance tubular (sew-up) tires are still made with silk casings, which were once the gold-standard for durability and smoothness. (An old training partner of mine once proclaimed, "Riding silk sew-ups is better than sex!")  Fewer still are made with cotton.

Now, if I were riding those Seawastex Maxxis tires in the peloton, I could really say I was "catching" other riders and "netting" a prize!  

From The Fourth to Le Quatorze

 Whenever I wasn't in the US for "The Fourth"--American Independence Day--I was in France, for "The Fourth" and "Le Quatorze":  the Fourteenth, a.k.a. Bastille Day.  

Today's the day in France, and for Francophiles all over the world.

I count myself as one. But even if you're not, try to remember that American independence is intertwined with the toppling of the ancien regime in France.  In both countries, revolutions were spawned by homegrown philosophers who questioned ideas of hereditary monarchy and nobility (even as, ahem, they owned slaves).

It's kind of ironic, really, that so many people in both countries celebrate their national holidays with picnics or barbecues in normally-tranquil parks and backyards--as fireworks explode, sometimes in the distance, sometimes not so far away.

And some of us, it's about the bike:

From Falling Off Bicycles

When The Lights Went Out

From A Leslie Wong Blog

During my lifetime, all of New York City was plunged into darkness three times.  I was in the Big Apple for two of them, and there was no looting or any other kind of violence. Today, I am going to write about the third.

On this date in 1977, right around sundown, lightning struck a line that relayed electrical power to New York City. At least, that is the official explanation for why, on a sweltering night and day that followed, lights went out, trains stopped and fans and air conditioners didn't work.  As cellphones were all but non-existent and very few people had computers, about the only way to know what had caused the disruption was through battery-operated radios.

The heat is a partial explanation of why so many parts of the city plunged into lawlessness and general chaos for 25 hours in 1977.  Indeed, the blackout of 1965 occurred on a mild, clear Fall night and while the 2003 blackout came on an August night it wasn't, or at didn't seem, as stiflingly hot as that July night in 1977.

But the summer of 1977 was part of a particularly difficult time for the city.  Less than two years earlier, the city came hours away from bankruptcy; on the night of the blackout, many people were still without work or other ways of supporting themselves or their families.  Also, crime was increasing rapidly in the years before the pandemic:  The Son of Sam, who had been terrorizing the area for about a year, seemed emblematic. Some would see the crime rate as a cause of the general sense that nothing--not the schools, not any of the other city services--was working; others would see it as an effect.  Whatever the case, a sense of desperation and anger filled much of the city, especially in its Brown and Black neighborhoods, where much of the violence occurred.

I haven't been able to find any accounts of whether people navigated the streets by bicycle in the absence of street lights.  I can feel pretty confident in saying, however, that bike shops were looted, along with other businesses:  Really, just about anything of value was taken.

(Some have said that the 1977 Blackout spurred the growth of hip-hop, in part because some would-be DJs, ahem, acquired their equipment that night!)

So why wasn't I in New York?  Well, I was with my parents in New Jersey that summer--the last I would spend with them--and baby-sat that night for one of my mother's friends.  We didn't lose our "juice," but I saw accounts of the stores broken into (sometimes by attaching a rope or chain between the store's front gate and a car) and fires set on TV.  At first, I thought it was a trailer for some movie or another:  Science fiction was big that year. (If I recall correctly, Star Wars came out around that time.)  Now, if I had been in New York, would the 1977 Blackout have been as peaceful as the ones in 1965 and 2003? 

Don't Use This Bike Lane!

Lately, I've had to ask neighbors and friends not to wave or call me when I'm riding down the Crescent Street bike lane, which takes me directly to my door.  I've explained that for almost any ride I take--whether it's to run errands on Steinway Street or to Connecticut or Point Lookout--the Crescent Street lane is the most dangerous stretch.  It's less than three meters wide--for bicycles, e-bikes, mini-motorcycles, motorized scooters and pedestrians, sometimes accompanied by their dogs, who wander into it while looking at their phones.  

The thing is, unless I'm crossing Crescent Street from  31st Road, the lane is the only way I can get to my apartment.  There is simply no room between the traffic lane and parked cars on the west side of the street or the parked cars and traffic to the east side, where I live.  Before the lane was constructed, I could maneuver my way through traffic, which can be heavy as the street is one of the main conduits between the RFK/Triborough and 59th Street/Queensborough Bridges. Then again, I am a very experienced cyclist and didn't have to contend with the scooters, e bikes and other motorized forms of transportation.

In addition, and a couple of blocks up from me is Mount Sinai-Queens Hospital and the ambulances and other vehicles that embark and return.  Furthermore, there has been residential construction along Crescent, so trucks are all but continuously pulling in our out of, or parking in, the lane. Oh, and even when there's traffic, some drivers still seem to think Crescent Street is the local version of Daytona or Indy--whether they're young men who just want to drive fast and make noise or commuters or other drivers who want to beat the traffic jams on the 59th Street Bridge or the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

So, I would tell anybody who doesn't need to use the lane--as I do--to stay away.  It was poorly conceived and constructed and, to be fair, when it opened--early in the COVID-19 pandemic--nobody could've anticipated the explosion of e-bikes, scooters and other motorized conveyances.

Mind you, the Crescent Street lane doesn't share some of the defects I've seen in other bike lanes in this city and country.  It is clearly marked and relatively easy to access from the RFK/Triborough Bridge.  The transition from the end of the lane to the 59th Street/Queensborough Bridge, or the local streets around Queensborough Plaza, could be better, but is still better than others I've ridden.

In light of everything I've said, I must say that I can't blame Bike Cleveland for advising local cyclists not to use the new Lorain Avenue bike lane.  According to BC. the lane, near the Lorain-Carnegie Bridge, "is short-lived, and quickly  disappears and drops riders into the sharrow (shared)lane that has existed there for years." The bridge BC notes, is "well known as a haven for speeding motorists on the move to make the highway connection at the other end."

I've never been to Cleveland, but that sounds very familiar to me.

Who Benefits From e-Bike Rebates?

 As an undergraduate, I passed an economics course by telling the professor that, if I failed, I would have to re-take the course--and he might have me in the class!

The "threat" worked, sort of.  He told me I could barge in on him or call him whenever he was in his office (We didn't have e-mail in those days!) and he'd help me in whatever way he could.  I wonder whether he genuinely felt pity for me, was swayed by my  promise that if i passed that course and semester (I was also failing another class: Calculus), I would major in "something that didn't require math" or simply didn't want to see me in his class the following semester.

Anyway, I did pass that class--but not Calculus.  I returned to school the following semester--on probation.  But, as I promised, I changed my major--from Biochemistry and Economics (strange combination, I know) to English Literature and History.

I mention all of that so that you can take what I'm about to say with whatever amount of salt suits your taste.  Here goes:  The more expensive an item is, or perceived to be, the less likely they are to spend it on local merchants.

Denver's e-bike rebate program, which has become a model for similar schemes in other cities, seems to offer evidence of what I have just said. 

While more than 30 retailers in the Mile High City are eligible to accept the rebates, Seattle online retailer Rad Power bikes has been, by far, the most popular vendor in the program. That, in spite of the recalls, lawsuits and other safety concerns associated with the company.

To be clear, Rad Power offers e-bikes at lower prices than most brick-and-mortar retailers.  So, the rebats--typically 300 to 500 dollars--cover a larger portion of a bike from Rad Power than from a local shop.

Although I'm not ready to start riding e-bikes, I understand how they benefit some people and are certainly better for urban and global livability than automobiles. On the other hand, if e-bikes are being promoted in the name of "sustainability," I think planners need to think about what they mean by that term.  While e-bikes don't contribute nearly as much to ambient air pollution, we need to consider the costs to the environment of having our purchases delivered on single-trip runs by vehicles that pollute as much as passenger cars or trucks and spend more time idling--not to mention the distances from which e-bikes (and other items) are delivered.  

A Hunger For Innovation

 Now I understand why some bikes don’t have round frame tubes!

A New Policy on Abandoned Bicycles

 They lose their seats and wheels. They rust, corrode and rot. Sometimes parking cars back into, and bend, them. 

I have seen many of them locked to signposts, trees and railings that line sidewalks of this city. Less frequently, I have seen them tethered to public bike parking racks and the ones on campuses and workplaces.

I am talking about abandoned bikes.  Most such bikes aren’t high-end and don’t seem to have been particularly well-cared-for before they were forgotten. You can almost tell they were purchased for not much money or were “inherited” or “rescued.”

 Once in a while, though, I’ll see a relatively high-quality bike still in pretty good condition that’s been left by its lonesome for a few weeks. I imagine that its owner had to move on short notice or had some other kind of emergency.

Whatever the circumstances, the City’s Department of Transportation is trying to cut down on the number of bikes abandoned along the city’s thoroughfares.  To that end, it is establishing a time limit for parking in public bike racks.

According to the new policy, an abandoned bike is “a usable bike that is locked in a public bike rack for more than seven consecutive days.”  Anyone can report such a bike and request removal in order to free up more space.

Once a bike is reported, the DOT will tag it.  If the bike is not removed after seven days, it can be confiscated by the DOT, NYPD or a designated representative and turned over to the nearest NYPD precinct for 30 days. If the bike isn’t claimed, it will be sent to the Property Clerk, which has a convoluted process for requesting return of property.

I have to wonder, though, how effective this policy will be.  For one thing, as I’ve mentioned, abandoned bikes are more likely to be found on lamp and sign posts and railings than on public bike rack—at least in my observation. Also, as Melissa Kravitz Hoeffner points out in her Time Out article, one can “technically “ cut off the tag and keep the bike in place.

More Blue Heat And A Big Lunch

 Another “beat the heat” ride.  I must admit that I did something the nutritionists tell you not to do:  I skipped breakfast.  I rationalized it to myself because I wasn’t hungry and wanted to get on my bike early.  I did, however, have a quick cup of coffee before taking off.

My ride took me into Brooklyn, through the quiet side streets of Greenpoint, some brownstone blocks of the Pratt Institute neighborhood and Park Slope—and a neighborhood just south of Prospect where the Victorian houses have wide porches and the streets have names that are even more English than anything the English could ever come up with.

From there, I rode down past Brooklyn College into a neighborhood with bigger, but more modern (1930s-1950s) houses that were once home to the children of Jewish and Italian immigrants who’d “made it” but are now occupied by Orthodox Jewish families who, no doubt, are prosperous even if their wealth has to be spread across large families.

From there, I pedaled to Sheepshead Bay and Coney Island where I saw the same blue heat I saw yesterday from Fort Totten Park.

Yesterday I recalled the long-ago science lesson about blue stars being hotter than red or yellow ones.  Today I though about the oceans—including the Atlantic that churns under the Coney Island Pier getting hotter.  Perhaps I will reveal my ignorance of science when I tell you, dear reader, that I wondered whether the ocean will turn bluer as it heats up.

Then more riding along the water—the Verrazano Narrows, under the eponymous bridge —and up to my apartment.

In spite of not having eaten, I didn’t “bonk.” I did, however, start to feel peckish after I crossed the Pulaski Bridge back into Queens. Even if my hunger was psychologically induced, I felt I’d “earned” the big lunch of asparagus, peppers, radishes and mushrooms in a vinaigrette dressing with baby Swiss (Emmental) cheese and corn (maize) tostadas.

Blue Heat

 Yesterday and today, I took morning rides ahead of the most intense heat and humidity we’ve had so far.

At Fort Totten Park, I thought about something I learned a long time ago in a science class:  Blue stars are hotter than red, orange or yellow ones. As I have never been outside of the Earth’s atmosphere, I had a hard time imagining that.  Gazing out to the Long Island Sound, it was a little bit easier:  I could practically feel steam rising from the water.

Oh, I was wearing a blue top. The after-ride shower felt really good!

Fabulous Fourth

Happy American Independence Day!

Of course, if you're in the USA, you simply say, "Happy Fourth!"

With that in mind, I am sharing what has to be one of the best annoncements of a 4th of July ride I've ever seen.

The ride was actually scheduled for the First, which was Saturday.  There were really two rides:  a "long" loop of 68 miles (a bit more than a "metric century") and a "short" one of 35 miles.  Both  took riders through the environs of Tryon, North Carolina.

I am going for a ride:  I haven't decided to where, or how long or on which bike.   With that in mind, I'll let you on another part of my journey--if you can keep a secret. (So why am I mentioning it on a blog that's had a couple million views? you ask.  Fair enough.)  You see, today, I'm celebrating something else:  my birthday.  It's not a round-number birthday, but it's significant in another way.  I'll let you guess at what it is.  All I'll say is that I am still in the middle of my life, i.e., in midlife, as long as I don't know when it will end.

Will This Bicycle Ever Gain Traction?

When (mostly) young people with self-taught computer skills have too much time on their hands, they...hack, steal identities and scam people.

When engineers (again, mostly young)have too much time on their hands, they create technically sophisticated and completely impractical things.  At least they're doing it for fun, at least sometimes.

A case in point is a bicycle without wheels.

Now, this bicycle could, at least in theory, move across certain kinds of terrain and roadways. 

Here, however, the term "move" is somewhat elastic.  Yes, they can traverse said real estate but, as one commenter said, "Finally, some one made a mode of transportation that's as fast as walking with ten times the effort."

Just what the world was waiting for, right? 

Midlife Or Middle Age?

 This blog is called "Midlife Cycling."

The reason for that is that as long as I don't know when I'm going to die, I'm in the middle of my life.

That, of course, isn't necessarily the same thing as being in middle age.

At least I know this:  There's no way to escape being in midlife.  As for middle age--well, perhaps one could outride it--if, of course, one could ride as fast as one did in one's youth!

A Bike Lane In Back Bay?

 The first time I went to Boston, I stayed in the Back Bay neighborhood. It was probably the best introduction I could've had to the city, as it's home to some of its loveliest and most historically significant buildings and spaces.  It reminded me of some parts of Manhattan's Upper West Side and Brooklyn's Park Slope, two neighborhoods in which I lived before they became colonies for the uber-rich.  But, of course, Back Bay's character was and, I suspect, is distinct from those New York neighborhoods.

Being accustomed to cycling in New York and having recently cycled in Paris, I didn't have any trepidation about riding in Boston.  When I rented a bike, however, an employee in the shop admonished me, "Don't ride on Boylston Street."

Boylston Street.  Photo by John Tlumacki, for the Boston Globe.

Of course, I rode there anyway--and understood his warning. With two traffic lanes in each direction and lined with popular stores, restaurants and cafes, the constant streams of traffic often had to snake around double-parked vehicles and trucks darting in and out with deliveries and for pickups.  I imagine there are even more of those today, what with Uber, Door Dash and the like.  

Now Mayor Michelle Wu's office has announced a plan to install a protected bike lane along a stretch of Boylston between Massachusetts Avenue and Arlington Street.  Predictably, business owners complain that a bike lane would take away parking spaces and further snarl traffic and therefore hurt business.  

While a poorly-planned bike lane can indeed exacerbate traffic conditions, as it has on Crescent Street (where I live), there is no evidence that stores, restaurants and the like lose business because of bike lanes.  If anything, I think that reducing traffic--a stated goal of bike lanes--would actually benefit business owners in a neighborhood like Back Bay that are popular with tourists and have a lot of foot traffic.

That is, if a bike lane is well-planned and constructed--and if regulations about who can use the lane are clearly defined and enforced.  As I have mentioned  in other posts, a narrow bike lane becomes a nightmare for everyone when it's used by riders of electric bikes that have only clutches and no pedal assist (which makes them, in essence, motorcycles) or scooters.  And it's hazardous for everyone involved when signals and merges aren't timed and created so that, for example, cyclists can cross an intersection ahead, rather than in the path, of turning cars, trucks and buses.

I hope for the sake of Boston's cyclists (and me, if and when I visit again) that any bike lane is what too many other bike lanes I've seen aren't:  safe and practical

Riding Under Smoke From Canada and France

About two kilometers into my ride today, I had this view of the Manhattan skyline:

Everywhere I rode, the sort of heavy gray haze you normally see before a summer thunderstorm enveloped the sky.  But there is no rain in the weather forecast until, perhaps, late tonight.  

As I rode, however, I convinced myself that it "wasn't as bad" as what we had earlier this month:  those blood-orange skies you saw in news images of this city.  I asked myself, "How bad could it be?" if I could see this so clearly:

at Schenectady and East New York Avenues in Crown Heights.  The mural depicts a the three main communities in the neighborhood:  Hasidim, Blacks (Caribbean and American) and hipsters/gentrifiers. 

I rode happily with such a belief or in such ignorance, depending on your point of view, to the Canarsie Pier where, not surprisingly, I saw about half as many people fishing, picnicking or simply hanging out as Tone would normally encounter at this time of year.

Still, "It isn't so bad," I told myself.

Then, as I pedaled away from the pier and was trying to decide whether to continue along the shore, west to Coney Island or east to Howard Beach, or to ride north in a more direct route home, I started to think, "something's not right."

I stopped at a Key Food supermarket for a bottle of water.  When I stepped back outside and mounted Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear (which was doing better than I was!), I felt my eyes stinging, even though I'd worn my wraparound glasses.  It occurred to me that whatever got to my eyes had to be in the air and smaller than a mosquito, gnat or other insect.

I splashed some water into my eyes and on my face and waited a couple of minutes.  Another block of riding, and the stinging returned.  I heard, from a radio of a passing car, that the health authorities declared the air quality "unhealthy."  I didn't think it would "pass" like an afternoon thundershower, so I pedaled a couple of more blocks to the Rockaway Parkway station of the L train.

During the ride, I thought about the young man a police officer shot in Nanterre, just west of Paris.  Not surprisingly, people protested, sometimes violently, in the City of Light and other French cities.  In places like Nanterre, groups of people seemingly as disparate an the ones depicted in the mural I saw.  I won't say there's more or less unity in one city or country than in another, but there always needs to be more.

If there was any good news in my taking the train home, it might be this: For about half of my ride, I was the only white person--and the only person with a bicycle.  No one seemed to care except a little girl with whom we exchanged wide eyes and funny faces.  Her mother smiled on my way out:  She looked tired and, I think, was happy that someone relieved her, for a few moments, from having to keep her kid occupied.  I guess taking the train home wasn't such a bad thing for somebody!

The Wildfires, Again!

During the early days of the pandemic, bicycling was one of the few activities in which one could engage wearing a mask. 

Ironically, now that the authorities have declared an end to the COVID-19 emergency (although they still recommend vaccinations and the other precautions we had been taking), it may now be necessary to wear a mask while riding, running or engaging in any other outdoor activity.

The reason?  Smoke from wildfires in northern Quebec and Ontario. (Another irony:  South Park had the right idea--blame Canada!)  As I rode to Flushing Meadow-Corona Park late this afternoon, an orange haze tinged the sky--several hours before sunset.  The weather forecast promises more of the same for tomorrow, and possibly beyond.

How They Covered The Revolution

On this night in 1969, New York City sweltered.  And, not surprisingly, tempers flared and a fight erupted. Then things exploded—and burned over the next few days.

You probably know that I’m talking about the Stonewall Revolution.  Some historians or other scholars might quibble with my use of the terminology, but I think it’s as much of a revolution as other conflicts that are so labeled because it, and they, changed the world.  

For one thing, I might not be who I am—or I might not be here at all.  And you wouldn’t be reading this blog.  What would you do?😉

Anyway, to give you an idea of what has changed, I am posting a New York Daily News article from 6 July 1969, three days after the uprising simmered down.  While it certainly wouldn’t be published today, and I doubt that even Fox News would broadcast commentary as demeaning today, it was far from the most derogatory commentary of its time—the Village Voice’s coverage arguably trafficked in more stereotypes and caricatures. (Also remember that Lisker probably didn’t write the headline.)

Homo Nest Raided, Queen Bees Are Stinging Mad

The New York Daily News, July 6, 1969
By JERRY LISKER

She sat there with her legs crossed, the lashes of her mascara-coated eyes beating like the wings of a hummingbird. She was angry. She was so upset she hadn't bothered to shave. A day old stubble was beginning to push through the pancake makeup. She was a he. A queen of Christopher Street.

Last weekend the queens had turned commandos and stood bra strap to bra strap against an invasion of the helmeted Tactical Patrol Force. The elite police squad had shut down one of their private gay clubs, the Stonewall Inn at 57 Christopher St., in the heart of a three-block homosexual community in Greenwich Village. Queen Power reared its bleached blonde head in revolt. New York City experienced its first homosexual riot. "We may have lost the battle, sweets, but the war is far from over," lisped an unofficial lady-in-waiting from the court of the Queens.

"We've had all we can take from the Gestapo," the spokesman, or spokeswoman, continued. "We're putting our foot down once and for all." The foot wore a spiked heel. According to reports, the Stonewall Inn, a two-story structure with a sand painted brick and opaque glass facade, was a mecca for the homosexual element in the village who wanted nothing but a private little place where they could congregate, drink, dance and do whatever little girls do when they get together.

The thick glass shut out the outside world of the street. Inside, the Stonewall bathed in wild, bright psychedelic lights, while the patrons writhed to the sounds of a juke box on a square dance floor surrounded by booths and tables. The bar did a good business and the waiters, or waitresses, were always kept busy, as they snaked their way around the dancing customers to the booths and tables. For nearly two years, peace and tranquility reigned supreme for the Alice in Wonderland clientele.

The Raid Last Friday

Last Friday the privacy of the Stonewall was invaded by police from the First Division. It was a raid. They had a warrant. After two years, police said they had been informed that liquor was being served on the premises. Since the Stonewall was without a license, the place was being closed. It was the law.

All hell broke loose when the police entered the Stonewall. The girls instinctively reached for each other. Others stood frozen, locked in an embrace of fear.

Only a handful of police were on hand for the initial landing in the homosexual beachhead. They ushered the patrons out onto Christopher Street, just off Sheridan Square. A crowd had formed in front of the Stonewall and the customers were greeted with cheers of encouragement from the gallery.

The whole proceeding took on the aura of a homosexual Academy Awards Night. The Queens pranced out to the street blowing kisses and waving to the crowd. A beauty of a specimen named Stella wailed uncontrollably while being led to the sidewalk in front of the Stonewall by a cop. She later confessed that she didn't protest the manhandling by the officer, it was just that her hair was in curlers and she was afraid her new beau might be in the crowd and spot her. She didn't want him to see her this way, she wept.

Queen Power

The crowd began to get out of hand, eye witnesses said. Then, without warning, Queen Power exploded with all the fury of a gay atomic bomb. Queens, princesses and ladies-in-waiting began hurling anything they could get their polished, manicured fingernails on. Bobby pins, compacts, curlers, lipstick tubes and other femme fatale missiles were flying in the direction of the cops. The war was on. The lilies of the valley had become carnivorous jungle plants.

Urged on by cries of "C'mon girls, lets go get'em," the defenders of Stonewall launched an attack. The cops called for assistance. To the rescue came the Tactical Patrol Force.

Flushed with the excitement of battle, a fellow called Gloria pranced around like Wonder Woman, while several Florence Nightingales administered first aid to the fallen warriors. There were some assorted scratches and bruises, but nothing serious was suffered by the honeys turned Madwoman of Chaillot.

Official reports listed four injured policemen with 13 arrests. The War of the Roses lasted about 2 hours from about midnight to 2 a.m. There was a return bout Wednesday night.

Two veterans recently recalled the battle and issued a warning to the cops. "If they close up all the gay joints in this area, there is going to be all out war."

Bruce and Nan

Both said they were refugees from Indiana and had come to New York where they could live together happily ever after. They were in their early 20's. They preferred to be called by their married names, Bruce and Nan.

"I don't like your paper," Nan lisped matter-of-factly. "It's anti-fag and pro-cop."

"I'll bet you didn't see what they did to the Stonewall. Did the pigs tell you that they smashed everything in sight? Did you ask them why they stole money out of the cash register and then smashed it with a sledge hammer? Did you ask them why it took them two years to discover that the Stonewall didn't have a liquor license."

Bruce nodded in agreement and reached over for Nan's trembling hands.

"Calm down, doll," he said. "Your face is getting all flushed."

Nan wiped her face with a tissue.

"This would have to happen right before the wedding. The reception was going to be held at the Stonewall, too," Nan said, tossing her ashen-tinted hair over her shoulder.

"What wedding?," the bystander asked.

Nan frowned with a how-could-anybody-be-so-stupid look. "Eric and Jack's wedding, of course. They're finally tieing the knot. I thought they'd never get together."

Meet Shirley

"We'll have to find another place, that's all there is to it," Bruce sighed. "But every time we start a place, the cops break it up sooner or later."

"They let us operate just as long as the payoff is regular," Nan said bitterly. "I believe they closed up the Stonewall because there was some trouble with the payoff to the cops. I think that's the real reason. It's a shame. It was such a lovely place. We never bothered anybody. Why couldn't they leave us alone?"

Shirley Evans, a neighbor with two children, agrees that the Stonewall was not a rowdy place and the persons who frequented the club were never troublesome. She lives at 45 Christopher St.

"Up until the night of the police raid there was never any trouble there," she said. "The homosexuals minded their own business and never bothered a soul. There were never any fights or hollering, or anything like that. They just wanted to be left alone. I don't know what they did inside, but that's their business. I was never in there myself. It was just awful when the police came. It was like a swarm of hornets attacking a bunch of butterflies."

A reporter visited the now closed Stonewall and it indeed looked like a cyclone had struck the premisses.

Police said there were over 200 people in the Stonewall when they entered with a warrant. The crowd outside was estimated at 500 to 1,000. According to police, the Stonewall had been under observation for some time. Being a private club, plain clothesmen were refused entrance to the inside when they periodically tried to check the place. "They had the tightest security in the Village," a First Division officer said, "We could never get near the place without a warrant."

Police Talk

The men of the First Division were unable to find any humor in the situation, despite the comical overtones of the raid.

"They were throwing more than lace hankies," one inspector said. "I was almost decapitated by a slab of thick glass. It was thrown like a discus and just missed my throat by inches. The beer can didn't miss, though, "it hit me right above the temple."

Police also believe the club was operated by Mafia connected owners. The police did confiscate the Stonewall's cash register as proceeds from an illegal operation. The receipts were counted and are on file at the division headquarters. The warrant was served and the establishment closed on the grounds it was an illegal membership club with no license, and no license to serve liquor.

The police are sure of one thing. They haven't heard the last from the Girls of Christopher Street.

Can We “Share” Lanes?

 

Should cars be allowed in a bike lane?

You may be forgiven for thinking that I am asking the question sarcastically—or hating me for asking it.

There are planners who are answering that question in the affirmative. They argue that such arrangements already exist in the Netherlands and a few small communities in the US.  And “shared” roadways—really, streets or roads with lines and stylized bicycle images painted on them—are, in effect, what the planners are proposing—in one city, anyway.

To most geographers and demographers, Kalamazoo, Michigan is a medium-sized city. I’ve never been there, but from what I’m reading, it has disproportionate amounts of motor vehicle traffic, in part because it’s home to Western Michigan University and Kalamazoo College. But, being about 230 kilometers (145 miles) from Detroit or Chicago, it doesn’t share those cities’ transportation systems and is therefore, like so many other American communities, auto-centric.

When I say “auto-centric,” I am not talking only about the lack of mass transportation or the distances between places.  I am also referring to the difference in drivers’ attitudes. As I have described in other posts, motorists in countries like the Netherlands and France are more conscious and respectful of cyclists.  

If my experiences here are indicative of anything, drivers don’t “calm” or slow down when see cyclists in “their” shared lane.  But proponents claim that is what will result if a stretch of Winchell Avenue is divided into one 12-foot wide traffic lane and an “edge” lane where cyclists and pedestrians will have “priority.”

Ken Collard, a civil engineer and former city manager, called the proposal  “stupid.” Other residents, cyclists and motorists alike, are calling it names that I could print here but, because I am a proper (ha, ha) trans lady, I won’t.

Ride The Rainbow!

In previous posts, I have said that lines of paint does not a bike lane make.

Still, I just might ride this one, wherever it goes:

Happy Pride! 

Why An E-Bike Shop Burned

 Fires know no boundaries.

People on Madison Street, in New York's Chinatown, know that all too well.  Earlier this week, a fire in an e-bike shop spread from its first-floor location to the apartments above it.  As a result, two people are dead and several others remain in the hospital.

The fire is practically an exhibit with all of the problems associated with e-bikes, specifically the lithium-ion batteries that power them and some of the shops that sell and service them.

The shop where the fire broke out had been cited earlier for violations of the city's still-weak regulations regarding e-bikes and their batteries.  A previous citation (which levied a $1600 fine) resulted from the wiring and storage of batteries.  I can understand that shop owners are trying to optimize their limited space, but in that shop, like others, stored batteries in a space in a front shed without ample room or protection from the elements.  Also, according to reports, that shop and others (as well as individual e-bike owners) often use extension chords when charging batteries, or try to charge several at once on a power strip.

Also, I suspect that the electrical wiring and outlets in that shop and building were old.  When new, they probably wouldn't have been strong enough for charging lithium-ion batteries, but after decades of use, they're fire hazards.

There's another shop just like it--on the first floor of building, with apartments above it--across the street from the one that burned. I wonder how well the people in those apartments are sleeping.

(I don't mean to make light of this tragedy.  But I realize that this is the second day in a row I've written about e-bikes.  In my next posts, I'll go back to writing about good old pedal bikes.) 

When Is It A Motorcycle?

The other day, during a ride in Queens and Brooklyn, I detoured to the Ridgewood Reservoir.  Because the loop around it is flat, I can ride around it a few time and add a few kilometers/miles to my ride without trying.  (I recently learned that the loop is 1.2 miles, or about .7 kilometers:  longer than I thought it is!) I was enjoying myself on a sunny, breezy afternoon when I made the turn near the Brooklyn side.  There, two young men on ebikes without pedal assists whipped around the curve.  One of them popped a wheelie and veered to his left-my right.  I had almost no room to maneuver:  I was well near the right edge of the lane and, even if I could have cut in front of him without colliding, I almost surely would have hit, or been hit by, the other guy on eBike, a cyclist riding in the opposite direction, or a group of people walking with a dog.

The guys on eBikes were going as fast, it seemed, as the car traffic on the nearby Jackie Robinson Parkway. Lately, I've wondered whether those bikes seem faster because I'm getting older and slower.  But that experience--and a couple of reports that have come my way--show me that those machines are indeed getting faster and because prohibitions against them on bike and pedestrian lanes and speed limits are never enforced (if indeed they exist), too many riders seem to feel no compunction about endangering other people.

Folks like David Rennie in Park City,Utah are having similar experiences to mine on bike lanes and hiking trails. In a letter to the Park Record,  he says that allowing such bikes on trails is "an accident waiting to happen" and can "see no reason why throttle-controlled e-bikes should not be treated exactly the same as a petrol-driven bike, and subject to the same licensing and use rules."

From Electric Bike Action

In another Park Record letter to the editor, Mike Miller echoed his concerns and concluded that throttle-driven bikes without pedal assists are really "motorcycles" and should be treated as such.

Voices Of My Rides

In "Sounds of Silence," Paul Simon wrote, "the words of the prophets are written the on the subway walls."

I've been riding daily and haven't been on the subway.  But I have seen, if not the words of the prophets, then at least expressions of the zeitgeist, if from different points of view.

During my Saturday ride to Point Lookout, I chanced upon this in Lido Beach:

I don't think I've seen such a large US flag anywhere else, let alone in front of a suburban house.  When I stopped to take the photo, I talked to a man walking his dog.  He said the house is "outsize for this neighborhood" and that he's seen "the flag more than the people who live there."  I quipped that I've lived in apartments smaller than that flag.

Not only is its size overwhelming:  It's placed so that in whichever direction you walk, ride or drive, you can't not see it.

As I've said in earlier posts, ostentatious displays of outsized flags--often seen on the back of "coal rollers"--seem less like expressions of patriotism and more like acts of aggression.

In contrast, during yesterday afternoon's ride down the waterfront, from my Astoria apartment to Red Hook, I saw something more inclusive on one of the last ungentrified blocks of Long Island City.

The author of that bit of graffiti, I suspect, also gave us this:

That person is not the enemy of the flag-flaunters and coal-rollers--and would surely know that I'm not, either.